In Plain Sight
by eniloracybur
Summary: Post Season Seven, slightly AU. Daryl finds a loner, Daryl befriends a loner, things happen. After years of reading fanfic I thought I'd finally write some. Reviewers will be thanked with puppy pics and rainbows.
1. Chapter 1

ONE

Daryl stopped his motorcycle on the side of the unfamiliar dirt road, glanced around him to gauge his surroundings and pulled a map out of his saddlebag. He knew roughly where he was, he always did, but this road didn't seem to be marked on his map. He wondered if the map was out of date or if he really was truly lost. He scanned the side of the road for a sign, any sign, and his eyes lit on a bridge a few hundred yards away. "Trickle Creek", it read. Good, a landmark. He studied the map, smoothing the wrinkled page carefully against the seat of the bike and skimming his finger down the highway until he found what he thought was Trickle Creek. No road, though. The map showed the creek, connecting two larger rivers and running perpendicular to the highway he'd left behind half an hour ago. But no road.

He was further out than he'd ever been from Alexandria, and he knew he was taking risk after stupid risk but he couldn't bring himself to give a shit. Being trapped in that town, behind those walls painted with the names of the dead drove him absolutely crazy. He couldn't stay still, couldn't settle to the routine everyone else had seemed to pick right up. He wanted out, but couldn't bring himself to leave his family for good after everything they'd been through so he compromised and left for solo trips whenever he could. It was, strictly speaking, against the rules. Nobody was supposed to go out alone, even though the threat of Negan and the Saviors was over. There could be others. He felt like every bend in the road hid more bad guys, and the weight of deciding who was good and who was bad pressed down on him like a dark fog. He needed to be alone, to hunt and scavenge and try to clear his head.

He stood up to stretch his legs and lit a precious cigarette. He paced while he smoked and thought out his next move, pushing himself to think clearly and critically. The road not being on this map didn't mean it wasn't on others. But his map had come from a big service station on the highway, meaning he wasn't the only one using that particular guide to this area. If a road wasn't mapped it was likely to be far less traveled than one that was, and that meant that any building or structure or whatever he found out here was less likely to be picked clean. Less likely to be people too, he thought.

A twig snapped, somewhere to his left. He whipped around, ice blue eyes scanning the woods. Maybe more likely to have people, on second thought. He'd much rather be on an unmapped road himself. He took one more drag on his cigarette before grinding it out with the toe of his boot and gave the woods one more careful going over before getting back on the bike. He revved it, loud, purposefully announcing his presence for no reason other than he was pissed off and wanted a fight.

"What an asshole." Dylan muttered to herself, shifting her weight uncomfortably. She was up in an elm tree, in a little perch tucked between the branches in a way that hid her from every view except directly below. She'd heard that guy on his stupid bike coming from a mile away and had guessed, correctly, that he'd come down her road and chosen her perch to watch. The entrance to the little dirt road off the highway used to have posts and chains across it, making it look like a disused pull-off for construction vehicles, but some other asshole had taken her chain and she hadn't been able to replace it yet. She had debated stealing and putting up a weigh station sign to dissuade people further but did not relish the thought of carrying a sheet of metal for miles down the highway. She didn't like when people got this close, but she wasn't worried about the biker getting closer to her cabin. She'd already thought of that.

"Goddamnit," Daryl growled, throwing out the kickstand to his bike violently and standing up. "This is fuckin' bullshit!"

He had parked his bike in front of a barricade. Junk cars, fallen trees and decayed walkers were heaped from one guard rail to the other. Getting a car through would be impossible, and he had his doubts about getting his bike through too. Someone didn't want anyone coming this way, and had made a concerted effort to keep people out. He studied the barricade. Under scrutiny it wasn't an accident, it wasn't haphazard. Somebody had lined the cars up end to end, filled the gaps with trees and brush and garnished the heap with walkers, probably to gross out whoever happened upon it. Daryl Dixon was not easily grossed out, however. And he knew that if he had built a wall like that he'd want a way around or through for his own convenience. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, not at the barricade but at the guard rail it was built on. He half smiled, strode over, and unhooked the hidden latch. The entire section hinged inward, to the woods, showing him a worn path around the side of the barricade.

He rolled his bike through it, latched it behind himself and kicked the bike started. As he laid rubber, revving his engine obnoxiously away from the barricade, he held his middle finger high in the air, victorious.

"Fuck you too, buddy." Dylan was furious and starting to get scared. The barricade had worked against almost everyone who'd come down the road. People on foot she didn't bother with, just kept an eye on until they passed through or died. Usually, they died. Good sized herds roamed through here and she didn't usually bother killing many, preferring to avoid risk and wait it out in one of her tree perches. She'd stayed in one for four days through a thunderstorm waiting for a particularly large herd to roll through not too long ago. She'd thought she would go crazy, confined to a six by two foot platform, completely exposed to the elements and pissing off the side onto the walkers below.

She watched the biker, off in the distance. He'd have to stop and camp, and if he had any kind of brain he'd stop exactly in one of her traps. Trickle Creek doubled back and the bridge had washed out, about five miles ahead. The bank was clear, easy to defend, and the water would be tempting. She was guessing biker boy wouldn't leave his motorcycle, and would stop at the bank to camp and plan how else to annoy her. She had a perch there, too, across the river and hidden in a stand of Georgia pine. She'd meet him there. Dylan stepped out from behind her tree, adjusted her beanie over her wild hair and buckled her backpack strap, thinking a moderate jog would get her there as he finished setting up camp.

As she ran, she pondered. She had always liked running, before the world fell apart she'd been a regular runner. Now, she ran as her primary form of transport. And away from things, frequently. She'd been alone out in this stretch of woods for about eight months, by her reckoning. Dylan preferred to work alone and when her group fell to the Saviors she had been out, alone. She returned with a backpack full of medicine to complete and utter destruction. Their small camp, really just two parked RVs with a tarp strung up between them and a fire pit, had been completely torn apart. The garden she and Zoe had carefully planted was torn up, the half grown vegetables not even taken, just trampled carelessly into the dirt. The picnic table was ablaze, one RV was on its side and there was no sign of anybody. She knew it was the Saviors, it had to be, nobody else was brutal enough to take people away as slaves. Other bad guys just murdered you, if they were really bad they didn't headshot you so you turned, but the Saviors took people and ground them down into cogs in their massive machine of chaos. Dylan had scavenged what she could from the campsite and gone the opposite way, turning tail and running.

Her face burned as she thought about it. She had immediately given up on her people. She even knew where the Saviors had their nearest outpost and had given it a wide berth. She didn't want to fight anymore. She didn't want to decide who was good and who she could trust and who might murder her for the stale granola bar in her bag. So she came here, to the hunting cabin her dad had brought her to when she was a kid, and she'd blocked off access to the road and to herself, finding limited solace in her solitude but at least not worried about being betrayed or having to protect someone or facing yet another loss. She slowed, then stopped. Stretched her arms over her head and rolled her neck, feeling out her sore and tired muscles and knowing she wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.

Daryl pulled up on the banks of a creek, scoping it out as a possible campsite. The smooth clay banks rose up into a little hill, with a stand of thick brush to one side and a sharp decline to the creek on another. Those features would naturally deter biters, leaving him only one side to actively defend. Fresh water would be nice, too. He shrugged and began to make camp, parking his bike up against the brush to block in a little space he could sleep in while being at least a little hidden.

Dylan silently stepped through the woods, dappled fall sunshine falling between the trees and onto the thick bed of brown leaves carpeting the floor. She blended better in the fall, her wild orange hair tucked under an olive drab beanie mixed with the fall foliage and her practical brown canvas vest and thick grey sweater mingled seamlessly with the trees. She came up on the protected side of Daryl's campsite, guessing that the thick stand of brush would lull him into not checking it thoroughly. It was way too overgrown for walkers to get through easily, and the few people who'd made it this far had not bothered to guard it. She had a perch close enough to have eyes on his camp all night, just to make sure he was just passing through. There was nothing left to scavenge out here, the one convenience store had long since been looted and the only houses for miles a few scattered hunters' cabins, bleak and empty. She liked it that way.

Daryl debated lighting a fire, but decided against it. The moon was almost full and he'd strung up enough cans and junk to alert him to any intruders. He'd had cold beans before and they weren't the worst. He settled himself against the trunk of a young maple, using the bark to scratch between his shoulder blades. Dylan watched, silently, from her tree. She was close enough to spit on him, almost. She scanned his site, noticing and cataloguing every single thing about this stranger. He seemed at home, leaned up on a tree and forking cold beans into his mouth. He had a crossbow next to him and a quiver on his other side, but no sleeping bag or blanket or anything. She took little comfort in knowing they'd both be sleeping rough tonight as she shifted her weight from side to side, the rough, unforgiving planks of her perch were making her ass numb. She stretched, took a sip from her canteen and settled in to half-nap, not quite asleep but not fully awake. Some time later, she heard the man stirring around beneath her and cracked an eyeball to see him standing, now, crossbow up and ready, knees flexed like he was gonna run. She snapped to, cocking her ear in the same direction he was looking and heard the telltale sounds of a herd coming in from the south. In the still, cool, night air, she could hear twigs crackle and leaves flutter and the low, unmistakable moans of the not-really-dead.

"Fuck." She muttered, scrambling to look behind her, in the direction the noises were coming from, just in time to see the first walkers stumble out of the woods and into the clearing. She crouched at the edge of her platform, making herself as invisible as possibly. The man below her cursed and grabbed his crossbow, firing off a couple shots before straddling his motorcycle and kicking at the starter. It wheezed, half turned over and died.

"Shit!" Daryl growled and got off the bike, pushing it down in front of the walkers to slow them down. He scanned the woods, thinking for a second he might climb a tree when someone came barreling out of the woods, holding what looked like a crowbar. He instinctively drew on the figure, sighting down the length of his bow at what turned out to be a girl, redheaded and wildeyed.

"Wrong target." She snapped at him, tapping the bow away from her face with her crowbar and shifting to stand back to back with him. He fell in next to her, shouldering his bow and pulling his knife from its sheath at her belt. She dipped forward and caught an advancing corpse cleanly on the side of the head, dropping it where it stood. She danced back to stand at his back and he took a turn, striding forward and kicking out a knee before burying his knife into a rotten skull. They continued for a few minutes, easily and naturally picking up the other's rhythm. The herd wasn't thinning though, and Dylan feared that meant a surge they couldn't handle. She had no choice. After deciding she wasn't going to watch this guy get eaten and jumping down from her tree to help, she couldn't leave him now.

"Too many." She grunted as her crowbar made contact with a particularly gross walker, its brains splattering over her jeans. "Follow me." She didn't wait for his response, just turned tail and ran. If he chose to stay that was on him.

Daryl stared at the girl's retreating back. She had come out of nowhere, sassed him for pointing his bow at her, fought with skill and grace and a fucking crowbar and then took off, expecting him to follow her? He didn't trust her as far as he could throw her, but unfortunately he was out of other options. He kicked the walker closest to him down and followed the girl, tracking her by the gleam of the moon on her crowbar.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

Daryl followed the girl for close to an hour by his reckoning. She ran through the woods at a light and easy pace, skirting trees and rivers and leaping over obviously familiar obstacles. He did his best to keep up with her, but he was flagging fast. For a fleeting moment Merle's voice tickled his ear, _Getting soft, baby brother._ Daryl knew that living in Alexandria hadn't softened him, that having regular meals and access to a doctor and basic creature comforts like hot water had made him stronger, but he couldn't deny that running like this wasn't a regular part of his life anymore.

She'd noticed him lagging behind. Honestly, she was impressed he'd kept up thus far with his heavy crossbow and apparent smoking habit. "Ten minutes." She threw the words over her shoulder at him, saw him nod before she slowed down and threw an arm out to stop him from falling in the lake. They'd come up to a stand of scrubby pines on the shore of some little lake or other. Daryl could hear the wavelets crashing on the rocky shore beneath the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Dylan strode into the trees, cold water splashing up over her knees. She towed a little rowboat out into view, and in the moonlight Daryl got his first good look at her.

She was young, maybe early twenties, although people aged rough nowadays. She was tanned, freckled and surprisingly a little curvy. Most people now were too skinny, underfed and scared. She had strong thick legs, wide hips and strong arms. She'd stripped off her vest and sweater and thrown them into the boat, vapor rising from her hot skin and arms flexing as she towed the boat towards him. "Get in." her voice was a little gravelly, like she didn't use it much.

He hesitated. He had no idea who she was, although the alarm bells in his mind weren't going off as he looked at her. She cocked an eyebrow and shrugged, stepping into the boat and looping the oars through the oarlocks. "Or fuckin' don't. Either way." She got a couple good strokes in and he was wet to his chest by the time he grabbed the side of the boat and hauled himself in.

"Where we goin'?" He sounded exactly like she pictured he would, a growly gravelly redneck voice to go along with his biker vest and sleeveless flannel.

"My place." She craned her head around her shoulder to check she was aimed right, her oars slicing through the water like magic.

"Just you?" He sounded incredulous, and she suddenly realized the gravity of her situation. Bringing a strange man back to her cabin, just the two of them. She paused rowing and sized him up, deciding he wasn't a real threat and mentally locating all the weapons in her house.

"Just me." She resumed rowing. "I'm Dylan."

"Ain't that a boy's name?" It slipped out before he could stop it. The tips of his ears burned but she laughed.

"It's both, asshole." she didn't sound mad, at least.

"Daryl." he offered.

"Where you from, Daryl?" she asked.

He hesitated. "Georgia." It wasn't a lie.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "This is Virginia, Daryl."

He sighed. "Place called Alexandria."

She nodded. "Close? I haven't heard of it."

"Naw. Fifty miles, maybe. Northwest of here." He shifted his crossbow to his other shoulder. "Is this Tucker Lake?" he'd remembered the name from his map and was rewarded with a curt nod.

She expertly navigated the boat through a stand of weeds and cottontails until the vessel nosed up on a soft mud bank. She stepped out and reached back for her sweater and backpack. He stayed on the worn wooden seat, unsure if this was a trap. She got perhaps ten steps before she realized that he hadn't followed her. "Come on, Daryl. If I wanted you dead I'd have hit you with a oar and pushed you out of the boat."

He stumbled out of the boat and onto the bank, finding steps carved into the dirt. He followed Dylan up over a dip and through a tangle of cedar trees. She abruptly stopped and flung an arm out in front of him like she'd done at the bank of the lake. He obediently stopped, studying her face in the flashes of moonlight that filtered through the thick needles. She looked like she was thinking hard, eyes almost closed and ears cocked. Her hot arm burned against his chest and he shivered in the breeze blowing off the lake.

"Okay." She breathed. Eyes snapping open, she looked at him and he saw that her eyes were warm and large, somewhere between green and brown. "Walk where I walk or get caught in a trap."

He couldn't tell if she was joking but decided not to risk it, and did his best to follow her quick, surefooted path up through an overgrown yard into a small clearing. In the middle, tucked up under a pine tree, stood a tiny cabin. One room, by the look of it, with a cellar entrance half hidden in the weeds on the east side and a porch wrapped around the north and west sides. Dylan hopped over a little brook that trickled through the yard and as Daryl followed her he saw something glinting among the rocks.

"Pinch trap. Used to be for coyotes." She was waiting for him.

"Weren't those illegal?" He looked down at the trap, the edges cruel and sharp under the clear water.

Dylan shrugged, leading him up the wooden steps to the front door. It had an old fashioned latch and a complicated leather knot for a door handle and she made quick work of it, swinging the old green door open and beckoning him inside after her.

Daryl stepped inside and waited for his eyes to adjust to the complete darkness of the little house. It smelled good though, like apples and soap and wood fires. He heard the girl moving around in the dark and hoped she wasn't planning on murdering him in here. A spark flared and caught and grew and she was illuminated, outlined in the small fire she'd lit in the fireplace. She tucked the flint and tinder safely back in her vest pocket and turned to rummage in a basket under the cracked and chipped coffee table. She came up with three tapered candles, almost new, and held them carefully first in the fire and then at an angle over a flower pot, using the melted wax to stick the candles upright. In the flickering light, he could see the details of the cabin and immediately he felt at ease.

The place was tiny. There was a kitchen, or rather there was an ancient half fridge and range, ceramic chipped and old like the formica table shoved up under the window. Above the kitchen was a little half loft, he could make out the outline of a bed on the floor and clothes hanging on the walls. He was standing in front of the main door, in the middle of a living room made up of a moth eaten ancient couch, chipped coffee table and a big recliner that had a carefully sewn up gash on the arm. Despite the obvious age and general decrepitude of the furnishings, it was clean and looked comfortable. There were cheerful pillows and knitted blankets on the worn out couch, and strings of herbs drying from the kitchen ceiling. The only signs this wasn't a normal cabin belonging to a normal person was the nailed shut dog flap on the back door and the assortment of traps laid out on a tarp on the kitchen cabinet.

"Just you?" Daryl asked again.

"Just me. You hungry?" She eyed his wet clothes and started rifling around in a chest of drawers by the back door, coming up with a pair of grey sweatpants and a cream colored thermal shirt. She held them up, questioning in her eyes.

"No." He was wary, and he didn't take his shirt off in front of people. Ever. Not even pretty redheads that rolled their eyes at his stubbornness.

"Daryl. You're shivering. And you're soaked. You're not sitting on my couch like that. I'm going into the cellar. Change, or freeze on the floor." She laid the clothes on the couch and picked up the flower pot of candles, cradling the flame with her hand. She slipped out the back door and he heard the gentle creak of the cellar door hinges.

Daryl sighed. He was shivering and did not much relish spending the night in wet jeans and boots. He stood closer to the fire and closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him like a shower.


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

By the time Dylan came back in the back door, he had changed and found her folding drying rack tucked up behind the couch. He had it unfolded and was just carefully laying his leather vest across it when he looked up, startled. She'd opened the door and gotten inside before he had heard her. She toed the door closed and set down the armful of jars she'd been carrying on the stovetop before barring the door with a sturdy plank set into brackets.

"Warmer?" She kicked her boots off and lined them up next to his next to the fire. Wobbling on each leg, she stripped off her wool socks and laid them directly on the hearth to dry out. Her feet were pale and freckled, the left one covered in a faded rose tattoo. She hung her vest next to his, transferring a knife from the vest to the back pocket of her jeans.

"Yeah, warmer. Thanks." He swept his eyes from her tattooed foot up her damp jeans to her faded black tee shirt. She had more tattoos, he saw. Vines and flowers and what looked like hummingbirds wound their way down her left arm, spilling onto her hand in a riot of colors. He saw words inked on her knuckles but couldn't read them in the flickering light. She turned to warm her back and he saw a portrait on her other arm, a red lipped pin-up girl wearing an old school white nurse's hat, framed in roses. She saw him looking and turned toward the light.

"I used to be a nurse." the firelight crackled off the tattoo; in the light he saw the words inked on scrolls above and below the nurse.

"Do no harm, but take no shit?" He read, incredulously. "They let you be a nurse with that stuff on you?" He gestured at the nurse, at her knuckles, her colorful hand.

"I never acted like it was a big deal and neither did anyone else." She shrugged and smiled and he caught a glint from her face. She had her damn nose pierced too, that hoop right through the middle that in his opinion made girls look like cattle. _Freaky._ Merle's voice rumbled in his ear.

"Outhouse?" He was gruff, but he hadn't seen a bathroom door.

"Yeah, but you can just piss off the porch if you aim for the rocks." She was matter of fact. "Otherwise, east corner of the yard." She went to the kitchen area, started popping lids off jars and pouring them into a pot.

He took her up on that offer, pissing off the corner into a pile of rocks rather than walking to the far end of the yard. The moon lit up the lake, silver waves rolling onto the sandy shore. He liked it here, in spite of himself. He hadn't decided about Dylan yet, with her boy's name and tattoos and cow piercing, but she seemed harmless and was feeding him so he decided to suspend judgement. He felt a little uneasy though, it was weird to him that she would be alone and so obvious about it. For a heartbeat, he thought about Beth and the funeral home and the dog that turned out to be a trap. He took a deep breath, steadied his nerves. This wasn't a trap. He was pretty sure he could take her if he had to, and who knows, she might be one of the good people left that Beth had believed in.

He took a minute to look around. Whoever had set up this place had done it right, done it the way he'd have done it. There was a shed at the back with a fence around it, maybe a chicken coop? His mouth watered at the thought of eggs, over easy and runny. There was a garden too, practical rows of parched corn and skeletons of tomato plants. She'd be pulling cold weather crops now, he thought it was October or so. There were rows of potato plants and bushy green carrot tops next to the frostbit cucumber vines and he somehow felt proud of this girl for planting a sensible crop.

When he slipped back inside, Dylan was kneeling in front of the fire stirring something in a three legged pot. She had changed too, into plaid pajamas and a grey long sleeved shirt with a hem clumsily mended in red thread. Her long tangle of orange hair was caught back in a braid, hanging down between her shoulder blades. She turned when he came in, smiled at him. "Bean stew. Nothing special but hot and filling."

"Fine with me." He opened his pack and pulled out two cans of black beans, stacked them on the stovetop near the empty jars. "My contribution. Or payback, or whatever." He didn't want her thinking he owed her anything.

Dylan nodded. "Thanks. Hand me some bowls?" She pointed with the wooden spoon and Daryl obliged, bringing her two mismatched, chipped bowls.

The bean stew might have been the best thing Daryl had ever eaten. There were chunks of carrot and potato, savory browned onions and herbs he couldn't identify. The broth smelled good, faintly like chicken, and he hoped, irrationally, for eggs at breakfast. He looked at Dylan over the chipped rim of his bowl, and immediately his face burned.

She was laughing at him, or about to. Her bowl sat in front of her, half empty. "You gonna eat that?" He spat at her, then tipped his own bowl into his mouth and wiped his mouth on the cuff of the shirt she'd lent him. His spoon sat untouched at his elbow.

"You sure you live in a community and not maybe like a fuckin' dog pound or something?" She was actually laughing now, giggles falling out of her mouth as she reached behind her and tossed a dish towel at him. "You have the worst manners I have ever seen in my life and I used to work in a prison."

He just grunted, used the towel to scrub broth out of his beard. She pushed her bowl at him and he took it slowly. Used her spoon to eat, no sense in dirtying his own. Now that the edge of his hunger was off, he could pace himself a little.

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, so you are people?" His ears burned again. "How long have you been out?" Her tone wasn't joking anymore, it was warm and inviting and his hackles rose immediately.

"None of your business." He replied roughly, slamming the bowl down on her crappy table.

"Oh really? You're welcome for dinner, dick, because you seem awfully hungry. And dirty. And if your community is safe and successful why are they sending out one asshole biker redneck instead of a proper party?" No longer warm and inviting, her voice was fiery and her eyes snapped at him.

"We send out proper parties." He couldn't help standing up for Alexandria, even though he kinda hated being there most of the time. "We have hot running water, too."

She rolled her eyes. "First of all, bullshit. Second of all, this isn't a pissing contest. I've been in this part of Virginia eight months and I haven't heard of Alexandria." She eyed him, coolly. "I've met most of the other groups here and there."

The implication hung heavily in the air. "Oh yeah? You know a black guy with dreads and a tiger?" He wondered why she was alone if she knew about the other safe places around here.

"King Ezekiel. And Shiva. The Kingdom. Nice enough, but I never liked Shakespeare." She replied, then waited for him to continue.

"Old museum, leader's kind of a dick?" He prompted her.

"Hilltop. I found an ambulance full of medical supplies once and drove it there and traded half of it for a motorcycle and a shitload of booze." She smiled at the memory. "Gregory is a total dick, though. He kept callin' me Donna."

"Motorcycle?" He was distracted by that.

She shrugged. "It's around, somewhere. Out of gas on the side of the road, nothin' to siphon around here for miles." She said carelessly, watching his response to her little white lie. There wasn't gas to siphon, but that's because she had it all hidden in the boathouse on the shore, along with the motorcycle.

He nodded, but knew she was lying. He didn't blame her, hell, he respected her for it. She stood up, stretched. "What's Alexandria like?" She asked as she picked up their empty bowls.

He sighed. "It's real nice, actually. Supposed to be some kind of eco friendly neighborhood." She raised an eyebrow at him. "We have windmills and solar panels. Our infirmary has power and machines and shit." He stood up.

Daryl didn't quite know what he was doing, but he had a pressing urge to take the bowls out of her hands and help her. Maybe it was the food, maybe it was the warm and homey cabin, maybe it was her easy way of talking to him. He'd been in houses like this before, belonging to girls who cussed like this before, eating shitty canned food like this before. But she was different. She just stood there, wide eyes looking at him quizzically, until he closed the gap between them and gently took the bowls from her, careful not to brush her fingers with his own. He felt like the air around him was darkening.

"An infirmary?" She sounded interested. "Doctor too?"

"We used to have a real good one. She taught some of the others the basics." His breath caught at the memory of Denise, pouring her heart out to him and Rosita on the train tracks, so long ago. He still had the "Dennis" key chain, safe in his room back home. Dylan just nodded, understanding the fate of the doctor without having to ask.

"Sounds real nice." She said, dismissively, moving past him to rummage in the kitchen drawers.

Daryl caught the edge in her voice and scrambled to right the wrong he thought he'd done her. "You could come back with me, you know." He swallowed hard. As the words came out, he wondered why. He didn't know this girl, didn't trust anyone, hardly even liked being in Alexandria. "Just gotta answer a coupla questions before we let ya in." He looked at her back, waiting.

She turned around, face unreadable, and held something up in front of him. "Knew I had some, somewhere." In her hand was a crushed soft pack of Marlboro Reds. He whistled, reached out to take them. She let him, and their fingers brushed against each other, the smallest possible skin and skin contact.


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

Daryl sat outside on the small porch smoking another one of the stale cigarettes she'd given him, watching the watery sun come up through the mist. It was his third, maybe, or fourth. They hadn't talked much last night, after he'd offered her Alexandria and she'd given him smokes and no answers in return. She'd handed off the pack, dismissed his thanks and gone up to bed, after telling him she slept light enough and set loud enough traps to not have to keep watch. He'd only nodded and watched her climb the ladder built in the kitchen wall, listened to her climb into bed and sigh, listened to her breathing slow and steady. He'd slept too, hard. He'd woken up with the sun, face down on her couch and covered with an old crocheted blanket, confused about where he was and who else was breathing in the house with him.

Today, he'd go back to Alexandria. With or without her. Probably without. She seemed damned determined to stay in the little cabin, stupid as that was. He'd spent the last couple cigarettes thinking of ways to convince her to go. He told himself it was because she seemed smart and able to handle herself, because they needed a nurse with Denise gone and because it would make his solitary, dangerous runs seem purposeful. In reality, he knew it was all of those things and more. He didn't like her, exactly, not being the type to really like other humans, but he could see something in her. She was clearly tough and smart, clearly able to handle what the world had become. He thought of her showing up at his camp out of nowhere, brandishing a crowbar and taking down walkers like it was nothing. Without meaning to, he found himself thinking about the way she rolled her eyes and laughed at him, the way she looked running through the woods in front of him, hell even the way she held a damn spoon. He shook his head, willing the image of her hands out from behind his eyes. Who was this girl, and why was he thinking about her like this?

"Hey." She'd come out the open door behind him, yawning and bleary eyed.

"Hey." He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. Wordlessly she held her hand out and he looked at her, confused, before she pointed to the pack in his vest pocket. He handed her a cigarette and his old zippo, raising his eyebrows at her. "You smoke?"

"I quit." She exhaled, the stream of blue smoke curling up around her. "Before the change, actually. I picked those up because I thought I'd want them now that life expectancy isn't a real thing anymore."

He chuckled. "I wouldn't have smoked so many if I knew..." She waved her hand at him, cutting him off.

"I haven't had one until this morning. Woke up and smelled it and just wanted one." She took another drag and leaned on the railing and he got a good look at her in the pale sunlight. She wasn't quite pretty, but almost. Her hair was loose and wild, frizzy waves and curls bouncing down to her elbows, almost. Her eyes were confusing, almost brown and almost green, and spaced widely apart above a large, crooked nose. Freckles dotted her tanned skin and he saw a scar, white and thin, neatly cutting across her throat. He wondered how she came by it when she spoke again, derailing his thoughts. "Question for you." She yawned again and he waited. "Feel like a little adventure today?"

"What?" He was genuinely caught off balance by the question.

"Gonna assume your dream town still needs supplies." She stubbed out her spent cigarette and held her hand out for another. He nodded, gave her one. Watched her cheeks hollow, stretching freckles across her cheekbones as she lit up. "With just me, I don't go on many big runs anymore. You seem like a good fighter, though, and you have transport." He nodded again.

She turned to face him, eyes narrowed as she studied his face. "There's an old nursing home 15 miles north. It's packed full of roamers, and I don't think it's been picked over even once because the only thing worse than regular geeks is formerly old people geeks. They're truly, honestly disgusting. But that place is gonna be full of medical supplies and probably non-perishable food, blankets, emergency equipment, vehicles, all kinds of shit." She waited, so he cleared his throat.

"And?" He asked, starting to feel like maybe she was even better than he thought, and she smiled.

"I'll split it with you if you help me clear it?" She blew smoke out and smiled at him. He felt something, deep in the pit of his stomach and gave her half a smile in return.

He held out his hand. "Deal." They shook, her hand rough and strong in his.

She had eggs. He stared in wonder at his bowl of leftover bean soup with three perfectly over easy eggs on top, steaming and smelling like heaven.

"Eggs?" He looked up at her in wonder. She was an angel, he thought, a tattooed shit-talking farming _angel_ and he couldn't believe it.

"Eggs." She beamed at him. "My most valuable resource. I'd be willing to trade you some chicks come springtime, Daryl. If you have anything worthwhile?"

He was too busy stuffing his face to answer her. Remembering halfway through a bite what she'd said about his table manners the night before he slowed down, trying consciously to chew and swallow at a reasonable pace. "Tell me 'bout the old folks home." he asked, around a mouthful of eggs and beans.

She sat down across from him with her own bowl and sighed. "Well firstly it ain't an old folks home, it's a rehab place for people who've had strokes and joint replacements and so on."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, old folks. Go on."

She laughed and took a bite, then began to lay out her plan. She didn't talk long, and Daryl got the feeling she'd thought about this place more than once. The way she described it, it could be a major win for Alexandria. They packed up, Dylan locking the chickens in their little house with extra water and grain and forcing a promise out of Daryl to care for them if she didn't come back. He promised, gruffly, and turned away from her. She was coming back.

An hour later, the sun had burned through the mist and clouds and the day promised heat and humidity. Dylan swore up and down there'd be a van at the home, and that she'd follow him in it to Alexandria and then home, so he reluctantly let her on the back of his motorcycle after they topped it up with some gas she'd brought out of the boathouse. He tucked the crude map she'd drawn him in his vest pocket, turned around to see if she was ready. She flashed him a smile, wrapped her hands around the grab bar behind her and winked at him. He kicked the bike into gear and took off north, for a millisecond allowing himself to wonder at her choice to use the bar rather than hold onto him like most people would.

She was right about the damn van, at least. There were two parked in front of the main entrance to the low-slung, scrubby building. It was set back a piece from the main road, overgrown hydrangeas and lilacs almost blocking it from view. There was an ambulance too, halfway down the long driveway, back doors swinging open. The building itself looked empty, a couple broken windows but there were branches down everywhere in the overgrown yard and he'd bet that was the cause of broken windows, not people breaking in.

He cut the engine next to the ambulance, rolled to a stop. Dylan hopped off, stretching her arms above her head. She moved silently around the side of the vehicle, waited for him to make eye contact with her then cut around back suddenly, crowbar drawn. "Nothing." She said, hoisting herself up into the back and rifling through the shelves.

"Anything?" He leaned against the back, shook out the pack of smokes, held one up behind him. She took it, then the lighter he offered.

"Couple bags, box of syringes." She dropped down next to him, left the bags on the edge. She blew out a column of smoke. "You remember the priority?"

"Nurses' station, med cart, med room, kitchen." He recited. "Won't it be locked?"

Dylan shrugged. "Usually a backup key somewhere, and the locks aren't high tech anyway. Mostly just keeping the residents out of the Vicodins." She stubbed out her cigarette. "Ready?"

Daryl nodded. "Let's do it."

They worked well together, he thought. Sometimes you just did. He and Merle had been like that, never having to discuss who was taking point and who was going left. Dylan was the same way. She walked, silently, just to his left. He went ahead when they got to the cloudy front door and banged on it, three times. They waited. He watched her scan the dirty windows, heard some shuffling inside after a minute. He went to open the door, to let one out, but she stopped him.

"Old folks." She mouthed, pointing at her wrist. He nodded. They waited a while longer, and the shuffling increased along with a moan or two. He guessed old folks walkers took longer to get places. He grasped the door handle, looked back over his shoulder at her and on her wink swung it open. Two pathetic old walkers stumbled toward him and he slammed the door, keeping his boot up against it to hold it. By the time he'd turned around she was swinging her crowbar down onto the second one. She nudged the bodies out of the way and nodded at him again.

Open. Shuffle. Swing. Thud. Open. Shuffle. Swing. Thud.

They repeated the dance until the pile of walkers was waist high. They were getting crawlers now, he was guessing the slower, formerly wheelchair bound ones were coming now and Dylan's forehead was shiny with sweat. "Trade." Daryl grunted at her and they switched spots. He pulled out his knife and readied himself.

Open. Thrust. Thud. Open. Thrust. Thud. Open. Thrust. Thud. Finally, Dylan opened the door to nothing. He straightened up, sheathed his knife. The pile of walkers was waist high now, bony pathetic corpses wearing hospital gowns and slippers, tufts of white hair growing from their desiccated scalps.

"No nurses." Dylan's voice was tight and hard. She kicked at the pile of corpses. "Nobody's wearing scrubs."

"Probably abandoned 'em," Daryl said quietly. "Happened to a guy I know. Woke up in the hospital, weeks after it happened. No doctors, no nurses."

"I stayed." She was quiet, too. "I stayed for a full year. Until it ended." Daryl just looked at her. She seemed on the edge of talking, teetering on the edge of something. He waited, found himself holding his breath. She didn't meet his eyes, instead wiping her own and standing up straight. "Let's empty this place out."

Dylan took point. Holding her crowbar loosely in her hands, she slipped through the dusty doors. Daryl followed her soundless footsteps down a long hallway, leaving boot prints in the inch thick dust. They ignored the patient rooms like they discussed earlier. According to Dylan, those wouldn't have anything useful and depending on the facility's evacuation plans, could have walkers pent up in them. He followed her purposeful path to the end of the far hallway, to a little counter and cabinets setup with papers strewn everywhere.

"This a nurse's station?" He'd never seen one before, being more the type to set broken bones at home. Dylan nodded.

"We're lookin' for a cart and a closet." She reminded him, rifling through the drawers under the dead, useless computers. Daryl started opening doors, found a staff bathroom, found a laundry room and two locked doors. He rattled the door handle of one, listened inside.

"Someone's in here, Dylan." He stepped back, preparing to kick the door down.

"Hold on, Rambo." She pushed past him, jingling a set of keys and trying each one until the lock clicked. "Told you they keep spares. In the charge nurse's sweater pocket, just like we did." She braced her boot against the door, listening to the scrabbling from inside. "Ready?"

At his nod, she pulled the door open and a walker stumbled out. She looked fresher than the other ones, long blonde hair still caught up in a bouncy ponytail. Daryl tripped her as she came out, and the walker went down, hitting the dusty floor. Her faded pink scrub top was stained with dark blood all down the back and torn at the shoulder. Daryl's knife darted forward. _Thud._

"There's your nurse." He grunted at her, moving past the body into the little room.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

They made quick work of the little nursing home. Daryl left Dylan in the storage room since she knew what to look for, choosing to rifle through the cabinets and drawers instead. He called out once when he heard a crash but she yelled back that she was breaking the lock box. He was lining up packs of cigarettes and cans of soda from the abandoned purses and lunch bags when she came out, stepping over the walker-nurse. She had three pillowcases in her hands and dropped them on the counter.

"One is meds. Antibiotics, opiates, pain pills, couple inhalers, some anxiety stuff. Not too expired. One is dressings; gauze, cream, tape, stuff for sutures, bandages." She sounded pleased with herself.

"Third one is...?" He snapped open another pillowcase from the stack he'd grabbed and filled it with his lunchbox loot.

She blushed, of all things. "Hygiene."

His eyebrows raised. "Soap?"

She nodded. "Razors, deodorant, soap, shampoo, wipes, pads, tampons."

He whistled. "Tampons are like gold now."

She laughed then, for real, throwing her head back and letting the peals of laughter echo down the empty hallways. "You're fuckin' tellin' me. Sorry, I'm not willing to trade those to the ladies of Alexandria for any price."

He nodded. "I seen some respectable women do terrible shit for a tampon."

They went through the med cart, Dylan grabbing what she thought was useful and leaving behind what she didn't. There was another nurse's station at the end of the other long hallway, with another set of keys in another sweater pocket and another bitten nurse waiting in the locked room. Dylan took that one out, a quick swing of the crowbar right into her wasted head. Dylan was quiet now, methodically stuffing another set of pillowcases.

"Hey." Daryl held up another set of keys. "These go to the van out front, unless I'm really wrong." She offered him a small smile. He held up a different set. "But these go to someone's F150. Dealer's choice."

"F150. No contest." She smiled at him again, a real one. "Don't offer it unless you know it runs."

"I'm gonna go make sure. You okay to hit the kitchen on your own?" He looked at her, sorting through the med cart. She didn't leave a mess like other scavengers. She took what she wanted and neatly replaced what she didn't, locking the cart and leaving the keys on top, absentmindedly helping herself to a squirt of hand sanitizer and rubbing it over her hands in a motion he could tell she'd made a million times. He saw her pause, could almost see the gears clicking in her mind as she tucked the hand sanitizer safely in her pillowcase.

"Go on. I'll meet you out there. Whistle if you need me." She didn't even look at him, and he wondered how long it'd been since she'd been in a nurse's station. She looked at home there, even though she was wearing battered jeans and a threadbare flannel instead of scrubs. Daryl suppressed the urge to touch her in some way, cup her elbow or put his hand at the small of her back. Instead he picked up her pillowcases and went back the way they'd came. He clicked the unlock button on the key fob experimentally as he walked out the front door, and to his complete surprise there was a faint chirp.

The truck was cherry red, parked in the shade behind the facility and it only protested a little when he turned the key. The gas gauge hovered on E, and he left it running while he hunted around the garage for some hose to siphon gas from the vans out front and the other cars in the lot.

Dylan took a deep steadying breath, pressing her hands to the top of the med cart to ground herself. Under the stench of death and decay all around her, the little nursing home smelled so familiar. She caught notes of disinfectant under all the dust, laundry soap under all the grime, a little old lady rose perfume scent under all the neglect. She felt at home here, the way she felt in her little cabin and the way she had felt in the hospital before everything was so royally and completely fucked up. She felt the panic lapping at her toes, felt the edges of her vision go fuzzy and fought hard against it. Now was not the time to think about that, now was the time to get supplies to ensure her own survival and the survival of the people in Alexandria. Like Daryl. His icy blue eyes came to her unbidden and she shivered. She stood up, rolled her neck around and straightened her shoulders. Time to go.

Daryl backed the cherry red truck into the loading bay. It was too quiet around here and it made him itchy. When the garage door whipped upward he jumped half out of his skin, but it was only Dylan.

"There's a shitload of food in here, but I hope you like pudding and prune juice." Dylan was pushing a canvas laundry cart laden high with cases and boxes and Daryl hopped out of the truck to help. They loaded the truck in the same unspoken tandem way they'd fought walkers. Daryl stood in the truck bed and Dylan passed him box after box. He noticed three or four in that she'd labeled each one, bright green marker on white medical tape.

"Books?" He questioned her.

"You said you had someone with basic training. These are to continue their education." She passed him a box labeled "Activities". "And this is for downtime in your dream town. Cards and board games."

He didn't reply. He was still hoping to convince her to stay in Alexandria, but maybe once she got there and saw it she'd stay. Or maybe Rick could convince her, he was good at stuff like that. Far more personable than an asshole biker redneck, anyway.

...

It was 60 miles of neglected country roads to Alexandria. The roads were clearer now than they'd been at the beginning, but there were still snarls of old wrecks here and there and Daryl was glad he'd gotten the truck gassed up for Dylan. He could skirt around stuff, thread through an accident on his bike but a van would have never made it. He looked back over his shoulder at her as she carefully navigated the big truck off the highway, her freckled arm draped out the open window as she dropped the truck into a lower gear to get through a muddy pile of walkers. She gave him a thumbs up as she got the wheels back onto the asphalt and he revved up and took off.

They were 10 miles out when he came up over a slow gentle rise and saw them. He slowed, raised a fist up to signal Dylan to do the same. There was a herd crossing the highway, maybe a hundred walkers strong. They were heading away from Alexandria, thankfully, but he did not want to tangle with them. Dylan parked behind him and got out, closing the door gently to keep their position low key.

"Wait it out, I reckon." He ambled back to the truck, leaned on the bumper and lit up a cigarette. "They're pretty far away, probably won't notice us if we stay quiet a while."

Dylan nodded and lit up a smoke of her own. "How far to your place?"

"About 10 miles. The way they're walkin', if we're lucky they'll clear in a half hour." He blew a smoke ring, pulled a water bottle from his pocket and offered it to her first. _Oh, you're chivalrous now?_ Daryl wondered when Merle's ghost would leave him alone. It'd been years now.

She shook her head at his offer, pushed herself off the big truck's bumper and climbed into the passenger seat, re-emerging with her pack. She took out her own bottle water, drained half of it between drags on her cigarette.

He studied her while she rummaged around in the bag. He was an observant guy by nature, and now that the world was the way that it was his observational skills had only gotten sharper. In addition to the paper-thin scar bisecting her neck he noticed a few round white scars dotting her upper arm. By the way her tattoo covered some of them he reckoned they'd been there a while. The sun was starting to set now, and the golden autumn sun beat down on them, setting her hair afire and glinting off her big, bright eyes. Eyes that were now looking straight back at him. _Shit._ He hurriedly looked away, at the herd passing the highway downwind of them, hoping she hadn't caught him staring like a schoolboy at her.

"Hungry?" She held out a poptart. "Not sure how outta code these are but I'm also not sure how much that matters when it comes to these."

"Naw." He stubbed out his cigarette. "Guessin' they're gonna want to feed you, when we get home. As a thanks. The ladies are keen on big dinners."

"Oh." Her voice was flat, and he wondered why. "I ain't planning on staying for dinner." She said, in the same flat tone.

"Plannin' on drivin' back alone in the dark?" He was angry, somehow. "Not real smart, Dylan."

She stayed silent for a minute, eating her own poptart. When she'd finished and tucked the silvery wrapper in an outside pocket of her bag she turned to face him. "I don't know the first thing about you and your people. Smarter to stick with the wilderness I know than the people I don't."

"I stayed at your house last night. Followed you over the river and through the woods to get there too." He pointed out.

"Maybe I'm smarter'n you, Daryl." She sounded angry now, too. "Besides, that was one-on-one. You're bringing me to who knows how many people, with walls and weapons besides. I'd rather take my chances on the road than walled in with a hundred people I don't know." She stood up off the bumper, brushed crumbs off her pants.

He was about to reply when she turned away from him and threw back over her shoulder, "Stand guard a minute, I need to pee."

He sighed and stood up, shading his eyes against the setting sun's rays. The herd down below was thinning out, down to stragglers now. He wanted to turn around to tell Dylan, but caught himself. She probably wanted privacy. He settled for calling out, "Dylan, herd's thinning. Could probably move out if we wanted to." He waited a moment, and when he heard nothing from behind him he turned around and called out again. "Dylan?"

Still no reply. He shouldered his crossbow and moved off into the scrubby brush she'd disappeared into and almost walked right into her, kneeling on the ground.

"Christ, Dylan, what are you doing?" He was almost panicking, seeing her down on the ground like that made his guts tremble. "You hurt?" He grabbed her wrist before he could help it, dragged her up to standing.

"The fuck, Daryl?" She wrenched her wrist away from him. "I'm fine. Killed a walker. We should move." She ducked around him, keeping an arm's length between them as she went back to the truck. The sun was setting and she was reluctantly starting to admit to herself that she'd probably be spending the night in Alexandria.

It was the last thing she wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

SIX

Dylan and Daryl pulled up to the gates of Alexandria as the autumn sun was setting. She got out of the truck, left the door swinging as she stepped out to take stock of her new surroundings. The walls were huge and intimidating, and she noticed a new patch right near the gates. Fresh timber stood out among the old sheet metal. Whoever was inside had heard Daryl's bike and the big gate ratcheted open and a woman with a brown ponytail and a rifle bigger than she was stepped out.

"Hey Daryl. What'd you bring me?" Her voice was joking, light. Dylan was caught off guard. What kind of life were they leading here, where people made jokes?

"Ain't brought you shit, Tara." Daryl matched her joking tone, as much as he was able. "Brought Rosita some nurse books though." He walked the bike through the gates and Dylan brought the truck behind him, slowly.

The woman, Tara, nodded. "And you brought a newbie?"

Dylan hopped down from the truck and stuck her hand out. "Not a newbie. I'm Dylan." Tara shook her hand, looked her up and down. Dylan did the same. This girl looked to be about her age, well fed and clean. Dylan attempted a smile, and the girl beamed at her. "We did bring a bunch of medical supplies and food, though."

"Works for me! Rick's on his way down, heard your bike. I'll grab the carts." Tara took off jogging to a house about halfway up the street.

"Well?" Daryl came to lean on the tailgate with Dylan, offered her a smoke. "What do you think?"

She took a cigarette out of his proffered pack and lit up. "Think about what?" She gestured around them, at the manicured lawns, the big pretty houses. "This? I think y'all crazy, to be honest."

Daryl laughed, a rusty chuckle. "You got no idea what we've been through, girl."

"Right back atcha, redneck." There was no hint of a laugh in Dylan's voice. He turned to look at her but she was staring straight ahead. "There's your girl." She pointed her cigarette at Tara. "Let's divide some shit up."

Tara had brought a kid's red wagon and another woman who introduced herself as Rosita brought a wooden gardening cart. Dylan stationed herself in the back of the truck, passing bags and boxes to Daryl. She kept a couple bags and two boxes of food for herself.

Daryl quirked an eyebrow at her. "You're taking less than half?"

"I ain't got a village to feed." She almost snapped at him, then flushed and turned away, tucking the supplies she was taking back to her little cabin up against the cab of the truck. "Plus I'm keeping the truck. Always wanted a red pickup." She patted the roof of the cab affectionately.

He laughed at that. "Not gonna argue." He spotted Rick loping down the street toward them, a smile on his greying face. He stood up, waved at his brother. Dylan followed his gaze.

"That the mayor?" She shaded her eyes and looked right over Daryl's head.

"Something like that." He reached up to help her down off the tailgate. She looked at his upturned hand, nonplussed, then looked at his face for one split second before jumping down under her own power. She strode up to Rick and Daryl had to admire the balls on the woman. She said herself she didn't know them from a hole in the wall and here she was swaggering up to their leader like a returning hero.

She stuck her hand out, raking her eyes up and down over the man the way Daryl looked at a game trail. Taking his measure, he knew. Daryl wondered offhandedly if Rick would be found lacking like he apparently had. "I'm Dylan." She said, simply, giving Rick's hand a single firm shake.

"Rick." His voice was measured, low. Dylan took in the gun at his hip, the muscles evident under his faded denim shirt, the air of authority. She pegged him for a cop almost immediately. Funny how what you used to do stuck to you like that.

"Nice to meet you, Officer." She said, nice as pie. Daryl snorted and although Officer Rick's face stayed immobile, the very tips of his ears turned faintly pink.

Before Rick could reply there was a frantic banging on the gate.

"RICK!" Someone on the other side, a man, shrieked in a panic. Tara scrambled back up into the guard tower, gesturing at Daryl to open the gate but he was already there.

"It's Michonne!" Tara's voice was tight. "She's hurt!"

Rick sprang forward, tense muscle bunching as he yanked on the gate next to Daryl.

"Tara! Where's she hurt, she bit?" Dylan barked at the girl in the tower, rifling through the supplies she and Daryl brought. "Hey! Rosita! You the medic?" She shot at the woman, who nodded coolly. Good, she didn't seem the type to crack under pressure. Dylan shoved the wagon at her and Rosita grabbed the handle and started running up the street.

"Not bit!" Tara yelled down, as the men got the gate cranked and two figures fell through the opening. "Her side!"

Dylan jumped down from the truck and hit the ground running. There was a curly haired guy in a plaid shirt supporting a woman whose hands were clamped to her side, a sword slung over her back. As Dylan got closer she could see that the guy was hurt too, blood trickling from a gash near his hairline and a bruise blooming on his cheek.

"What the fuck happened?" Rick snaked an arm around the woman and she leaned into him, wincing.

"Car accident." Michonne ground out.

"You got an infirmary?" Dylan didn't stop to introduce herself, she went right for the wound on the sword wielder's side and gently moved her shirt aside to see a tree branch piercing the woman's side, the end poking out right beneath her ribs on the right side.

"The fuck are you?" Michonne winced as Dylan examined her. "A doctor, I hope."

"You're lucky but you ain't that lucky." Dylan moved to take a quick look at the curly haired man's forehead, noticing his shallow breathing and dilated pupils on her way. "Get your asses to that infirmary before your respective lungs and brains shit the bed." She turned and grabbed the last pillowcases of medical supplies out of her truck and following Rosita at a fast clip up the road.

"Seriously who the fuck is she?" Michonne was breathing heavily, she couldn't seem to fill her lungs all the way.

"New friend of Daryl's." Rick replied as he helped her down the street.

"Dixon ain't got friends." She managed between wheezes.

"He's got a couple." Aaron's voice was weak from beside them, his head lolling on the archer's shoulder.

"That's Dylan. She's a nurse. Or used to be, or whatever." Daryl tracked her down the street, her shirt tails flying as she followed Rosita into the infirmary.

"She staying?" Rick pushed Michonne through the doors ahead of him, got her to the edge of the bed and swung her legs up and over.

"You'll have to ask her that." Daryl deposited Aaron on the other bed, swung his legs up and over a little less gracefully than Rick had.

Dylan was at the counter, ripping open boxes and dropping tools and bandages onto a draped side table with a precision and focus that reminded Rick of Daryl. He hadn't gotten a real impression of the woman, just her called him Officer and looking up at him with a mischievous face before Michonne fell through the gates and his heart dropped through his boots.

"Rosita." Dylan's voice was firm, comforting. "Can you put in an IV?" The other woman nodded, and Dylan pushed a tray towards her. "Two large bores each, if you could."

She looked up at the men staring at her. "Rick, you're not gonna watch her go through this. We don't have anesthesia and it ain't gonna be pretty." She started washing her hands methodically in the little sink, praising these idiots for at least having hot water and soap.

"I'm staying." Rick's voice was strained but firm, and he pressed a kiss to Michonne's hand.

Dylan shrugged, pulled on gloves and pushed her own cart over with the toe of her boot. "Whatever you say, Officer. Get that shirt off her, please."


	7. Chapter 7

SEVEN

Once Rick got Michonne's shirt off and Dylan got a good look at her, her heart sank a little. She was pretty sure it was a collapsed lung, and who knew what would happen once they got that stick out of her. She had to say the woman was a trooper though. Michonne lay on the bed, dark eyes watching everything Dylan did and hardly flinching when Dylan and Rosita touched her. She was thankful for Rosita, too. Dylan didn't know what kind of medical background the other woman had, if any, but she was calm and had good instincts and had gotten two IVs into Michonne without much trouble, hanging a bag of saline on one and leaving the other for Dylan before going to do the same for Aaron. Daryl stayed too, planted against the doorframe and watching everything that went on. Dylan got the impression he was attached to these two, as much as he got attached at all to other people.

"What's your blood type, Michonne?" Dylan thought based on the placement of the piercing stick that when they pulled it out of her, she might bleed faster than Dylan could keep up with. She stuck a pulse oximeter on Michonne's filthy finger and it beeped ominously at her, the number way lower than what she wanted. Michonne's dark skin meant she wouldn't turn blue like a white person who wasn't getting enough oxygen would, but the skin around her lips was ashy and her hands were cold.

"AB positive." Michonne's voice was low, breathy. Dylan offered a silent thanks.

"Best news I've gotten today." She turned to Rosita, who was peering into Aaron's eyes with a penlight. "Rosita, I'm going to need blood for a transfusion. Use Daryl, please." She saw Daryl's eyebrow arch as she turned back to Michonne, carefully turning the woman onto her side with the stick facing up. The increased pressure on the warrior's good lung increased, and her panting edged up into almost gasping. Dylan knew she was right about the collapsed lung and hoped she would be right about what to do about it.

"I don't know my blood type." Daryl swatted Rosita's hand away and she made a noise of frustration back at him.

"I don't give a shit about your blood type." Dylan turned to Daryl and pointed him at the bed next to Michonne. "She's a universal recipient so as long as you're a human being your blood will work for her."

"Jury's out." Michonne gasped at her and Dylan smiled. She liked Michonne. She hoped she didn't kill her with what she was doing next. While Rosita scrubbed at the dirt at Daryl's elbow to draw his blood, she steadied her hand at the exit wound on Michonne's back and braced herself.

"This won't be nice." She informed her patient. "Hold her down, Officer, I don't want to do any more damage than I have to." Rick nodded, put his big hands on Michonne's shoulders. Dylan grasped the end of the stick below Michonne's heaving rib cage and counted off. "One, two, _three!_ " She pulled, Michonne screamed, and she saw Rick's knuckles turn white as the blood bubbled up around the stick.

It came out clean though, at least she wouldn't have to search for stick pieces inside Michonne. She tossed the stick on the floor, black and sticky with blood and returned her attention to the entry and exit wounds. Michonne was panting hard now, and Dylan half hoped she'd pass out because the pain wasn't over for her just yet. The exit looked okay, it was smaller than the entry point and was oozing blood but wasn't bubbling like the front was. She dropped wads of gauze on both sides and clamped her hands, staunching the bleeding at least a little bit.

Rosita appeared at her elbow, attaching the tubing from the bag of Daryl's blood to the empty IV in Michonne's arm. Dylan nodded at her, gratefully. "I know there's a chest tube kit in one of the boxes. Can you grab that, a scalpel and a large hollow syringe?" Rosita went and Dylan turned her attention to Daryl. He looked pretty good considering he'd just lost a pint of blood.

"Daryl, get over here." She scooted aside to make space for him at her side. "I need you and Rick to sit her up. Lean her over on the bedside table, stretch out her back. The men complied, Daryl touching Michonne with uncharacteristic gentleness as he and Rick eased her up, leaned her over the table. Michonne was breathing better now, the wound was bleeding less but she was still panting and Dylan was sure that the stick had nicked and deflated her lung.

"Chest tube?" Rick's voice was strained. He had his hands on Michonne's shoulders still, standing protectively in front of her.

Dylan nodded. "Pretty sure she's got a collapsed lung. The stick nicked it. It will probably heal on its own but it can't reinflate without pressurization." Rosita dropped the chest tube kit on the bed, laid the instruments on the table.

"I've never even seen a chest tube." Rosita's voice was low and calm, unhurried. She wasn't making excuses, just being honest.

"I've only seen a few and never put one in." Dylan admitted and Michonne made a hissing sound Dylan thought might be laughter. "Why don't you see to Aaron, make sure his brain isn't too scrambled? Daryl can help me here, I need muscle not brains currently." Michonne hissed again and Dylan was sure she liked this woman now. Anyone who laughed during battlefield surgery was a complete badass.

"Muscle?" Daryl spoke up.

Dylan exhaled, deeply. "I have to assume there's fluid or blood in her lung. I have to get it out. I don't have anesthesia. I'm gonna put this," she held up the large syringe, "directly into Michonne's lung. I need you and Rick to keep her completely, absolutely still so I don't poke another hole in her lung or nick a nerve on my way in or out." She ran her hand along the woman's back, carefully counting ribs.

"Normally I'd say you need to eat more, Michonne, but currently I'm quite happy you're this bony so I don't miscount." Michonne rewarded her with another hiss-laugh. She swabbed her target with alcohol and turned to Daryl. "I need you to hold her shoulders. Push her down so she can't move. Rick, push her legs against the bed with yours, hold her wrists and trap her head under yours. I really, really need her as still as possible."

With Michonne effectively trapped by the two men, Dylan maneuvered under Daryl's arm to get a better angle. She spread her hand on Michonne's back, braced her feet against Daryl's boots behind her and ignoring the feel of the archer's heat pressed against her back she struck with the syringe. Her human restraints kept her in place and Michonne was reduced to whispering a string of extremely creative curses as Dylan slowly aspirated bloody fluid from her lung. She hit resistance and stopped, pressing her hand to the site as she withdrew the needle. Michonne shuddered, her head going limp against Rick's chest. The pulse oximeter beeped again and Dylan let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding and relaxed back against Daryl for a second. He unconsciously shifted to better accommodate her, his chest pressing against her back and she snapped forward.

"Okay. Lie her down." Michonne's oxygen level was better, but not good and she was still panting. Dylan picked up the chest tube kit and assembled the unit. "Rosita. I need clamps and a suture kit, please, and a shitload of gauze and tape." She looked at Michonne, ashy and clammy on the bed. "Something for pain, too. And literally any numbing agent in the building."

Rosita held up spray lidocaine. "All we got." Dylan shrugged.

"Good enough." She turned back to Michonne. "Frankly, this is going to fucking suck. I gotta cut you open a little bit and stick a tube in you. Sorry." Michonne just nodded. Dylan moved Michonne's arm out at an angle, then grabbed Daryl by the vest as he tried to leave. "No, need you here." She manhandled him behind her again, holding the patient's arm out and still in one strong hand and putting his other on Michonne's outstretched leg. This put the archer right up behind her again, and she ignored the goosebumps that sprung up as his breath stirred the hair on her sweaty neck. Rick held down Michonne's other side, her hand white-knuckled in his, and Rosita put something in the IV bag that had Michonne's eyelids drooping in seconds.

Dylan raised her eyebrows at her "assistant" and Rosita shrugged. "Morphine. I feel bad." Behind her, Daryl whistled.

"Good stuff." He remarked.

"She's gonna need it." Dylan said grimly, picking up the scalpel. She counted ribs again, picked a spot and swabbed. "Here we go."

And with a deep breath, she sliced decisively into Michonne's side between her ribs and ignored the woman's agonized groans as she clamped, inserted a tube nearly the length of her hand, clamped, sutured and bandaged.


	8. Chapter 8

IGHT

Daryl wasn't sure if it was the blood loss but he was completely exhausted. Dylan had done some insane shit with tubes and syringes to Michonne, splinted her wrist and ankle, picked glass out of her shoulder and Aaron's face and stitched them both up. She'd ordered Daryl around the whole time as well, mostly having him hold various parts of his friends down while Rosita fetched supplies and stitched wounds alongside the redhead. Now she was washing her hands for the ninetieth time while Rosita shone more light in Aaron's eyes.

"He's staying here tonight." Dylan said. "I'll watch them both."

"I ain't leaving." Rick had been silent since watching Dylan slice his woman open and put what he was certain was ten feet of tubing in her. Michonne was mercifully asleep now, while the chest tube unit burbled and bubbled at his feet. He felt uneasy looking at it, the tube snaking up from the chamber under the covers to the wad of bandages on Michonne's side. "I can watch Aaron too."

"Should send Eric over." Daryl contributed, leaning against the wall now.

"I'm fine, I can go home." Aaron made to get up and got poked in the chest by Dylan.

"No." She said, eyes flashing. "You're on 15 minute neuro checks for eight hours. At least. If you have a stroke and die and eat Michonne I'm going to be pissed. I worked hard on her. Here," She pushed a clipboard at Rick. "Make sense?"

He looked at the hastily drawn charts she'd given him. "I'm probably qualified to fill this out."

Dylan nodded. "Good. It'll give you something to do while you wait for Sleeping Beauty to wake up." She walked over to the window. It was fully night now, the sky was velvety dark and the town was quiet. She yawned. "I'm exhausted. I'm gonna go catch some winks in my new truck."

Rick cleared his throat. "You can stay at my house. I owe you that at least." Dylan held up her hand, stopping his train of thought.

"Stranger danger. Only person I trust in here is Michonne and she's out cold. I got a new truck today and sleeping in a truck bed is a luxury in this world." Rick nodded at her.

"I'm grateful to you, Dylan. Please consider staying." She smiled at him a little, but it didn't reach her eyes.

She left the little infirmary after extracting a promise from Rosita to check on Rick and their patients in four hours. The other woman lived in the apartment above the makeshift space and Dylan felt good having her close to Aaron and Michonne. Daryl caught up to her as she stumbled down the last step off the porch. "You don't trust me?" He was half joking, half serious.

Dylan rolled her eyes at him. "You want another sleepover?"

"Naw, you snore. You need a shower though." He was right, she realized. She was covered in dirt and grime from the road, plus blood from walkers and humans and a thin sheen of her own sweat. She felt like how she used to feel after a double shift at the hospital, bone tired and dirty and mentally exhausted from caring too much. She decided to not care for a few minutes.

"Hot water?" She asked, not disguising the hope in her voice.

Daryl nodded. "As much as you want." She groaned and he blushed.

"Okay redneck, take me home." She lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply, eyes narrowed against the smoke. "Words I've never said in that order before." She added, giggling.

He blushed again. "You get weird when you're tired. Let's go, Dylan."

Dylan stood under the hot spray in the upstairs bathroom of the house Daryl shared with Rick and Michonne and their kids. She cranked the knob as hot as it would go and put both hands up on the wall, letting the boiling water beat down on her back. She stifled a sigh of contentment, acutely aware of Daryl in the attached bedroom. She assumed the citrus and mint scented soap was Michonne's and also assumed that the other woman wouldn't mind sharing a little. Dylan watched the day's work swirl down the drain, scrubbing away the dirt and blood and watching her skin come out the other side, battered and bruised but clean.

She dawdled a little, not wanting to leave the comfort of the hot water. She stretched her arms above her head, tried to relax. She hadn't really thought much since getting into Alexandria. The day had gone to shit so quickly and she wasn't used to being around this many people, let alone this many people in a crisis. She thought of Michonne and shuddered, thinking of stumbling home injured and knowing there wasn't a doctor for miles. She hugged herself, leaned into the spray.

The panic and anxiety she'd felt when the gates of Alexandria first closed was making a bid for her attention again. She felt it curling around her like the steam from the shower and goosebumps erupted on her skin, even under the hottest water she could stand. She squeezed her eyes shut, squeezed her arms around herself and willed herself to stay standing. The rushing in her ears echoed and grew louder, and when her eyes flew open there were black spots starring her vision. Dylan threw a hand out, used the cool tile wall as a guide as she slid down with a thump to sit in the tub, bending her head over her knees and reaching out with a shaky hand to try and turn off the water that was blinding her now, spraying in her face and making it hard to breathe.

Daryl heard the thump from the bathroom and cocked an ear from where he stood in front of his dresser. He'd debated grabbing Dylan some clothes from Michonne's room but couldn't bring himself beyond the threshold. Dylan looked like she wouldn't mind a flannel shirt and he'd been trying to pick out his nicest one to lend her. The water was still spraying and steam curled from under the door. He turned back to his task when he heard it, an unmistakable sob, low and animal.

In half a second he had his ear at the door, listening hard. He didn't know what to do. Another sob floated out, and another. He made up his mind. "Dylan?" He jiggled the doorknob but of course she'd locked it. And now she wasn't answering. "Dylan?" He called again, louder. Nothing but sobs. He fit his shoulder against the door and lunged, popping the lock.

She was curled up sitting in the tub, fumbling with the faucet. He crossed the room in a stride and turned the water off for her. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her head bent over them, muscular arms hugging herself. She'd had the water on the hottest setting and her skin was bright red, her wet hair falling over her back in a dark tangle. He grabbed the towel he'd given her off the sink and wrapped it around her, blushing as red as she was from the bits and pieces he tried not to see. The one thing he couldn't avoid seeing was the large raised scar on her shoulder blade, the size of his fist. It was shaped funny, and as she moved to grip the towel more tightly around herself he realized it was a symbol, burned into her flesh.

She'd been branded. Hot rage flooded him and he saw red. Forgetting how she'd avoided his touch all day, forgetting he didn't care about anyone else, he turned and angled one arm under her bent knees, hooked the other under her shoulders and scooped her up out of the tub. She was heavier than she looked and he stumbled once over the rug. She hiccuped with the jarring movement and hitched herself up in his grip, wrapping her arms around his neck and shoving her wet head into the crook of his neck. She was breathing way too fast, he noticed, hyperventilating even and as he looked down at her large red rimmed eyes they rolled back in her head and she went limp in his arms.

"Dylan?" He almost screamed at her, almost lost his grip and dropped her. Her head lolled back against his shoulder. "Dylan?"


	9. Chapter 9

NINE

Daryl dropped her on his bed, covered her with a knitted blanket Michonne had put in there. The whites of her eyes peeked out through her cracked eyelids. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking at her. He didn't know what to do, didn't know if he should go grab Rosita or slap her or what. He decided to do what he'd seen Merle do to a strung out girl he'd brought home once from some skeezy bar. Daryl reached forward and tentatively put his thumb on her sternum, rubbed. Nothing happened. He rubbed harder, shook her shoulder. Her eyelids fluttered.

"Dylan." He shook her again, watched her pupils focus, contracting then widening. She sat up with a start. "Slow down. You passed out."

She covered her eyes with her hands, rubbed. "I remember the shower?" She opened her eyes, looked down at the towel and blanket, her wet hair dripping all over everything. Her face burned and she pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders.

"You had the water cranked to lava." He got up, grabbed the flannel and sweatpants he'd been planning on lending her and tossed them gently onto her blanketed knees. "When's the last time you had even a warm shower? You just ain't used to it."

He was excusing her, she realized. He wasn't going to ask her for an explanation or require an apology or mention how he'd found her passed out in a bathtub like a goddamn junkie. She touched her chest where his rough thumb had left an angry red mark. He'd woken her up like a junkie, too. She wondered vaguely where he'd learned that. She realized he was leaving her an out, leaving her dignity along with the faded flannel on her knees.

"Guess so." She pulled the blanket still tighter, knowing he'd seen the brand on her shoulder but knowing somewhere deeper that he wouldn't ask about it. Wouldn't put her on the spot like that. She didn't know what to say, how to thank him or if she even should.

"I got a shift on the wall." Daryl stood up from the bed, turned away from her. "You can stay here, I'll come back in six or so hours." He wasn't going to ask, wasn't his business. Hell, he had business he wouldn't want her in on.

Dylan nodded. She understood without it having to be said that he was letting her go, letting her keep her secrets. "I'll nap then head back to the clinic."

Daryl nodded. "See you for breakfast, then." And just like that he was gone. He picked up his crossbow from inside the doorway and left without looking back.

Dylan sighed, letting the exhaustion of the day catch up to her. She stood up and pulled on the clothes he had lent her, sweats and an old, soft flannel. She towelled off her hair and ran her fingers through it. They hadn't discussed where she'd sleep, she realized. She knew she was in his room and he wasn't going to be back for several hours but the thought of sleeping in his bed made her skin prickle. Then again, she didn't know who else lived in this house and the thought of being surprised on the couch made her anxious all over again. It'd have to be the bed, she realized.

She hesitantly turned down the blankets and climbed between the soft, worn sheets. She turned out the lamp, curled up on her side and tried to sleep. She never slept long, and she hoped she'd be up before Daryl got home to find her in his bed like some kind of Goldilocks. The mark on her sternum burned, and she fell asleep with her hand pressed to the hot imprint.

Daryl climbed up the ladder to the watchtower with his crossbow slung over his shoulder. He nodded at Lauren as he unslung it. She was newer to Alexandria, and never said much. She was a good shot and she lived with Rosita and Tara in the apartment above the clinic and that's all Daryl really knew about her.

"It's been quiet." She leaned her rifle against her own knees, stretched her arms above her head. "Two roamers, four rabbits, two skunks. I'm beat, been up here a double to cover for Michonne. You have an update on her?"

He nodded at her. "She's in the clinic. Dylan says she'll be alright."

"Who's Dylan?" Lauren picked up her rifle and water jug. "Newcomer?"

Daryl shrugged. "Not sure what she's gonna do. She makes her own plans."

"Friend of yours?" Lauren was curious. "She a doctor?"

"Nah. Known her two days. She's a nurse. Saved Michonne though. Rosita is s'posed to check on her throughout the night." Daryl sat in the chair Lauren had vacated, stretched his legs out.

"I'll wake her ass up. Night, Daryl."

"Night."

Lauren climbed down the ladder, leaving Daryl to his solitary thoughts and the empty wall. At night, they communicated every out by flashes of light around the perimeter of the wall. After receiving and sending his two flashes - _all good -_ he settled down to watch and wait.

He liked being on watch. He wasn't relaxed, he was constantly scanning his portion of the woods and occasionally looking backwards over the town but he was zen. He had a single purpose, to watch, and dedicated himself fully to the task at hand. His mind would empty and somehow, time would slow as he slowly ran his eyes over the familiar landscape in the same pattern, over and over, looking for changes in the terrain, in the texture of the darkness.

Tonight was different. He was jumpy, antsy, couldn't settle to his chair. He paced instead, up and down the ten foot platform. He couldn't shake the picture of Dylan, passed out crying in his bathtub. He didn't ask her about it, not out of the goodness of his heart, but because he didn't know what to say. He felt protective of her, regardless of her apparent ability to kick ass and protect herself. She'd survived alone at that cabin for months without him or anyone else, but he still hadn't wanted to leave her, had to resist his every instinct as he left her dazed and still wet from the shower on his bed. He hadn't even looked back at her, but could not help looking at his own window as he walked down the street.

He remembered the heat of her skin as he'd carried her to bed, the surprising smoothness of her chest under his rough thumb. He tried to replace the image of her crying and weak with the memory of her at the clinic, making smooth and assured movements and running the scene with a calm intensity that seemed like second nature to her. He wondered what kind of nurse she'd been, where she'd been when the world ended. It sounded like she had stayed, tried to protect people. He couldn't help but admire that.

He sighed and looked out over the woods, finally deciding to stop fighting his own brain. He spent his shift wondering about Dylan, remembering every minute they'd spent together and hoping she'd decide to stay.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: Thank you to all who are reading! I know the updates slowed down for a while but it seems my muse is back. Expect 11 up and very shortly and 12 is where the actions starts getting ... actiony**

 **xoxo**

TEN

Daryl climbed down the ladder at his shift's end, landing heavily at the bottom. Carol had relieved him and he was particularly happy to be off duty today. It was chilly this morning and his breath sent clouds of vapor swirling upwards. He was exhausted. Usually at the end of his watch he'd go right home and pass out, waking up in the early afternoon to do it all over again. He was off the next couple of days though, they were training new guards and he'd been politely excused from that particular task since he'd sent a teenage girl crying down the street a few months back. He was better at guarding alone, let Carol train the newbies.

Today, instead of going home, he loped down the street to the clinic. It was early enough that the sidewalks were empty. Dylan's red pickup was still parked at the gate and he saw somebody digging around in the truck bed. As he got closer he recognized the unruly red hair and when Dylan stood up and waved at him, he returned it without hesitation.

"Hey." She was holding a couple boxes and he wondered if she needed more medical supplies for Michonne. "Everyone all right?"

He wanted to ask if _she_ was all right, but settled for half smiling at her.

"Hey yourself." She answered with a smile. "Everyone is fine. Saw Rosita outside the clinic and decided to make a detour for these." She held up the boxes so he could see them, a wide triumphant smile displaying her crooked front teeth. He hadn't seen her really smile, and had to tear his eyes away to read the boxes she was brandishing.

"Is that coffee?" He reached up and took a box from her, offering her his free hand. She took it, hopped down. "Are you fucking kidding?"

"Nope! It's coffee. I was going to keep it all for my selfish self but I want some now, so I guess I'll share." She gave him another wide, lopsided smile and he felt his heart jump. "There's powdered cream and sugar too. Want some?"

"Hell yes. Lead the way." He gestured down the street and she started towards the clinic, shirt tails flapping beneath her canvas vest. It took a second for him to register why the shirttails looked so familiar.

She was still wearing his shirt. He followed her in a daze.

...

Dylan had wallowed in her own shame for a while before falling asleep the night before. She slept hard and dreamlessly and had woken up to watery sunlight filtering through the blinds in Daryl's room. She'd groaned and rolled over, eyes covered and face burning, dreading facing him that day. She could not believe she'd panicked and passed out in Daryl's shower. This was the first time she'd spent any kind of time around other people in several months and she'd immediately gone off the deep end and acted like a crazy person.

She rolled onto her back and exhaled, taking stock. She didn't actually feel panicked or anxious right that second. She felt almost relaxed, lying on her back in a warm, clean bed. She lingered for a minute, enjoying the woodsy smoky smell of the linens and deciding what she'd do about her patients. She knew she couldn't leave just yet, but her behavior the night before had definitely cemented her belief that she didn't want to be around people. She didn't _belong_ around people. She just didn't know how to behave. She'd go check in on Michonne and Aaron and then leave. Rosita could handle them if they were stable and she wasn't going to risk another episode like the one last night.

Her own flannel was still soaked with blood, and she only hesitated for a second before shrugging Daryl's back on over her tank top and grimy jeans. She yanked her canvas vest on and tucked her knife in its little pocket at her hip. Standing in front of the mirror, she raked her hands through her hair and braided it loosely before heading out the door and down the stairs. She had to get to the clinic to check on Michonne and Aaron.

...

Dylan led Daryl down the empty street to the little clinic. He followed her up the chipped white wooden steps and in the bright blue door. He was greeted by Rosita.

"Swear to God, I could kiss you." She sounded serious, too, and his face reddened painfully.

Dylan laughed. "I told you I would share!" She shook the can of coffee in Rosita's direction and the medic pretended to swoon before gesturing toward the counter behind her, where a battered coffee maker sat.

"I held up my part of the bargain, girl!" Rosita sounded happier than Daryl had heard her in months.

"We have not had coffee in forever." Rick's voice was gravelly with tiredness. "I helped too, you know."

"Me first." Michonne looked better than she had the night before, but her voice was quiet and tight. Daryl avoided looking at the tubes connecting her to the IV pole and the bubbling machine under her bed.

Dylan laughed again, and Daryl's spine prickled at the clear, bell-like sound. He wanted her to laugh more. "I plan on sharing. Daryl, wanna help?" She shook the can tantalizingly at him and he followed her into the little kitchen, carrying the coffee maker.

"How was your shift?" She asked him, opening the coffee and taking a huge whiff. She held it out to him and he inhaled the warm, familiar smell.

"Quiet. How'd you sleep?" He plugged the little coffee machine, rooted around in the cupboard for cups.

She measured the coffee and poured in the water. "Well enough. Thanks for lending your bed. And flannel." He thought he saw the slightest little tinge of red in her cheeks before she turned away.

"Welcome. You can keep the flannel, yours is beat to hell." He set the cups on the counter, listened to the coffee brewing. "Want a smoke?"

She nodded and followed him outside. They leaned on the back railing in companionable silence. Daryl lit a cigarette and passed her his old zippo. She lit up and he watched her. She looked well rested and clean, and he was only too happy to replace the image of her passed out in his bathtub with this upright, mostly smiling version.

"You should stay." Daryl blurted, without thinking. He hadn't meant to say it, but looking at her in the autumn sunlight and realizing that something about her made him not hate being in Alexandria. He felt comfortable, he felt like he belonged as much as he ever belonged anywhere. Dylan had beat her way into his life with a crowbar and he had been completely, utterly unprepared for her. He wondered if she knew, if she could sense the feeling behind his words. He wasn't good at words and feelings and he knew he should say something else, she was standing there looking at him with those confusing eyes, mouth frozen in an O shape as smoke drifted past her lips.

He cleared his throat, trying to dislodge the lump that seemed permanently implanted at the back of his mouth that prevented him from speaking his mind. The lump stayed and he had to settle for repeating himself. "You should stay."

She cleared her own throat and half smiled at him. "No, Daryl. I have my own setup." She ground her cigarette out under her heel and very lightly touched his shoulder as she passed him on her way to the door.

He shivered at her touch, feeling her body heat through his shirt.


	11. Chapter 11

AN: This chapter was a struggle. I needed a bridge between the last part and the next part.

The next part gets good, I promise.

ELEVEN

Daryl waved at Dylan's red pickup as she sped out of the gates of Alexandria. He hadn't been able to convince her to stay, not that few words he managed to squeeze by the lump in his throat were very persuasive. She'd shared her coffee and left a very capable Rosita in charge of her patients, shook hands all around and left. Rick had tried to convince her, and she'd gently but firmly brushed him off.

She had made one exception: Daryl was to come see her in several weeks to pick up baby chicks for Alexandria and in return he was bringing her flour from the Hilltop's mill and butter from the Kingdom's cows. Rick had offered to escort her back or send Daryl with her, but she'd declined that too. Two days with the good people of Alexandria had rubbed her nerves raw and she wanted to raise her middle finger at the gates as she laid rubber leaving.

Daryl sat on top of the wall and watched the horizon. Dylan's cherry red pickup had traveled out of view long before, and his eyes kept drifting back to where the road disappeared out of sight. He was consciously suppressing the urge to get on his bike and follow her, but he knew that would not only piss her off but probably end in her beating him with her trusty crowbar. He would have to resign himself to waiting, and spending every day wondering what she was doing out there at her cabin alone.

He wondered, not for the first time, what his problem was with her. _You're hung up on some bitch that doesn't even look at you, bro. Pathetic._ Merle was long dead, but his raspy voice had a nasty habit of giving life to his worst fears at the worst times. Merle had turned into a kind of sadistic Jiminy Cricket, voicing the fears and insecurities that huddled in the corners of his conscience and only coming out at the absolute worst times. His whole life, Merle had been a combination of bully and protector. Daryl felt like his big brother had him wrapped in a web of confusing emotions, somehow, even though they'd never been big on expressing feelings or communicating.

Daryl had tried to grow, made a real effort with his adoptive family to show his feelings. Honestly most of the time he tried to emulate Rick; his brother was kind and fair and just but not weak. Daryl feared weakness in himself, couldn't help but see a crying little boy made to pick a switch instead of an adult dealing with the very real traumas of the world he lived in now. His fear manifested itself as rage or scorn, more acceptable male emotions he'd learned from his father and from Merle. He knew, objectively, that Will Dixon and to a lesser extent Merle were both what the world, even this world, would classify as bastards; genuinely bad people with missing or severely stunted moral compasses. He knew that. And he also knew that Rick was a better role model, even with his faults. But he couldn't shake the years of ingrained self-regulation all the time, as much as he tried.

Carol had helped. She was sweet to him, and understanding when he lashed out. He uncomfortably thought it was because of her piece of shit late husband that she knew how to deal with his volatility, but he'd promised himself at a young age he'd never hit a woman and he never had. He'd gotten better over the years. He could take time to himself, walk away from the group to process his emotions on his own and know that they'd still be there when he came back. He always came back. He was getting better.

Three years ago, that fear and self-regulation and those deeply entrenched coping mechanisms would have sent him running out the house at the sight of Dylan in his bathtub. He wouldn't have known what to do, and would have covered that particular inadequacy by just leaving. Somehow, she was different. He felt drawn to her, compelled to be around her for some reason. When he'd found her, curled up under the brutal shower, his heart had dropped to his knees and he had acted completely on instinct. He found himself stifling that same instinct now, to protect someone that didn't need protecting, to support someone completely able to stand on her own and to help somebody who was obviously perfectly self sufficient.

He lit a cigarette and sighed.

. . .

Two miles outside the gates, after navigating a particularly decrepit stretch of road littered with human and automotive carcasses, Dylan stopped her truck in the middle of the road and lit a cigarette. She really had quit, before the turn, and hadn't touched one in years. But now she couldn't see the point in avoiding anything that gave any kind of joy. You never knew what was around the bend of the road in front of you.

She rolled the window down, exhaled. Dylan had a sneaking suspicion that Daryl had wanted to come with her, and if he'd asked instead of Rick asking if she needed an escort like a lost kid in a mall she might have said yes. She grudgingly admitted to herself that she liked his company. He was ... comforting, strangely, with his silence and solemnity. She remembered how he'd followed her through the woods, running lightly behind her and matching her blow for blow killing walkers. She tried not to remember waking up in his bed, wrapped in a blanket and opening her eyes directly into his sharp blue ones.

Dylan put the truck in gear and rumbled down the road. There weren't any good CDs in the truck, and she hummed a little as she motored down the faded back roads, checking her mirrors and hoping she wouldn't run into anyone. After a couple days in the Alexandria Safe Zone, she was bone tired. She'd slept like a baby, in a soft bed with no need to worry about keeping watch, but she was tired anyway.

She was emotionally exhausted. She'd been alone for eight months, give or take. She'd woken up every day alone, worked through every day alone, and gone to sleep alone. She had spent every day in silence and had gotten used to it. She liked the predictability of her days, the rotating list of chores and trips she made up to keep herself busy and moving. There was always something to do. She never needed to stay still and actually listen to her thoughts if she didn't want to.

She never wanted to.


	12. Chapter 12

TWELVE

It had been twenty-one days since Dylan had driven off in that stupid red truck. The first week, Daryl had helped build out a new section of wall, pulling all-day shifts in the cold bright sunshine driving nails and digging post holes. He threw himself entirely into the task, welcoming the physical exhaustion that hit him at the end of each day, the bone-deep tiredness that made it easy for him to sleep. Throw in a few guard shifts for good measure, and Daryl spent the first seven days almost too tired to think about her. Almost.

Rick had forced him to take a few days off after they'd finished the wall. He'd spent it sleeping, or trying to. Mostly he laid in bed, staring at his ceiling and chain smoking, deliberately not thinking about Dylan. Consciously not being worried about her out in the world on her own, specifically not wondering how she'd come by the scars on her shoulder and neck, willfully not remembering her hot skin on his when he'd lifted her out of his shower.

He'd gradually gotten into a rhythm of sorts back at home. He took extra shifts at the guard towers, he took walks around the perimeter, he volunteered for runs. He tried to keep busy, but winter was a slow season and there wasn't much farming or maintenance or even that many runs to go on anymore. He rolled over and looked at the battered old alarm clock on his nightstand. Five am. Late enough.

He rolled out of bed, feet landing heavily on the floor. He pulled a threadbare flannel on over his cutoff shirt, yanking maybe a little too hard at the stabbing memory of Dylan leaving wearing his shirt. He yanked his fingers through his messy hair and headed downstairs, looking forward to a cup of the coffee Dylan had left behind.

Michonne was already down in the kitchen, bouncing Judith on her hip and pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Morning." She handed him a steaming cup and turned to the cabinet to get another mug for herself.

"Thanks." He leaned back against the counter, watched her expertly juggle the baby and her own mug. Though she still wasn't allowed out on runs and wasn't doing much heavy lifting yet, you couldn't really tell she'd been impaled and had a punctured lung less than a month previously. "You're really good with her, ya know."

"I should be. I had a son about her age." Michonne always spoke quietly. She bounced Judith on her hip and the little girl cooed and tugged on one of Michonne's locs.

Daryl was not easily taken aback, but at this news he blinked and rocked slightly back on his heels. He couldn't recall Michonne ever talking about her life before. He had honestly never even been curious. The strange silver lining to the world ending was that your life before didn't matter. He, in particular, had enjoyed being judged by his skills and merits and not his last name and upbringing. He could only assume Michonne hadn't spent her pre-apocalypse life wielding a sword, but even as he watched her holding the toddler he couldn't quite see her without superimposing the sword onto her back.

Daryl felt social convention dictated he say something to this bombshell, but he honestly couldn't think of what. "Hmm." He managed.

Michonne turned and gave him a half smile. "I miss him. I love Judith. I love Rick. I love our family. But if I could go back, I would. I would relive it every day, just to see him."

Her dark eyes bore into his. He was truly at a loss for words now. "The world we live in is too dangerous to be alone in. If you can find someone to be with, against the terrible stream of shit we live through every day now, then you fight for that person." She turned away from him, bounced the sleepy toddler against her hip. "She's stubborn, just like you. She won't come here on her own."

And with that, Michonne walked out of the kitchen, quiet boots slipping away up the stairs. Daryl stayed behind, staring into his coffee mug with his ears burning.

. . .

By the end of his coffee, Daryl had a plan. He took the stairs to his room two at a time and pulled a nondescript black bag from the top of his closet. He didn't have many spare clothes, and the bag still looked empty after he shoved most of them inside. He shrugged and slung it over one shoulder, grabbing his poncho and crossbow from their hooks next to the door and thumping down the stairs, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

He wouldn't allow himself to hope, exactly. He didn't think Dylan would be willing to come back to Alexandria with him. He just wanted to see her. He needed to know she was safe and he needed her to know that he was there. Maybe he would stay there, with her. The thought of living outside the walls again make his blood sing.

The sun hung low in the overcast sky as Rick opened the great creaking gates of the safe zone and Daryl revved his motorcycle through them, raising one hand in farewell but not looking back. As he heard the gates slam closed behind him, a grin spread across his face. He had a mission, a purpose. Uncharacteristically, he was refusing to accept the idea that she was anything but thriving. He could foresee her being stubborn or angry, could foresee her throwing him off her property, even. But she'd survived for months on her own, building a homestead and scrabbling a life out of her little patch of ground. It had only been three weeks. She would be fine. Not happy to see him, more than likely, but fine.

. . .

Miles and miles away and three days before Daryl finally left the safe zone, at the roadblock marking the edge of the territory that Dylan considered hers, she stumbled against the rope ladder leading to her perch and half fell. Dirty, bloodied fingers clung to the rungs as she gasped for breath, a sharp ache outlining every lungful of burning, cold air. She heard the growling behind her and a whimper escaped her lips involuntarily. She grabbed a rung and hoisted herself up, wincing at the pain in her ribs and ankle as scrambled upwards, finally spilling over onto the platform itself and yanking the ladder up after herself.

She lay there, flat on her back, tangled in the rope ladder and still gasping for breath. She closed her eyes as the first drops of rain fell on her grimy face, drawing tracks down her cheeks.


	13. Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Daryl roared up to the barricade in the pale sunshine and stopped, cutting the bike's engine and taking a minute to look around. He knew Dylan's perch was around here somewhere, strategically placed to overlook the barricade but he wasn't exactly sure where. He pulled a bottle of water from his saddlebag and stood up, stretching his sore muscles and letting his eyes wander over the forest off the east side of the road. It was all scrubby pines and overgrown brush here, mostly brown and dead now in late fall. A cold breeze blew through the woods and he watched carefully for any abnormalities, looking high up in the trees under the leaf cover. That's where he'd put a perch and he was betting on Dylan doing the same.

Daryl took a drink and nearly spat it out when he heard a faint, shrill whistle from behind him. He whipped around and strode to the other side of the road, stashing his water in a pocket and drawing his crossbow up to his shoulder. He paused, eyes searching the trees, and heard another, louder whistle. He turned to his left and saw it.

A hand. A pale hand in a plaid flannel sleeve weakly waving a filthy blue bandana at him from a platform hidden up a gnarled old oak tree.

He shouldered his crossbow and ran, breath hitching in his chest.

. . .

If Dylan hadn't been so dehydrated when she heard Daryl's engine, she would have cried. She knew that rumbling sound and allowed herself to close her eyes while it got closer and closer. She could only hope that Daryl would stop at the barricade. She couldn't make it down the rope ladder again. She'd done it early the previous morning, to refill her water bottle, and it had taken a colossal effort to get back up again and most of the afternoon to painstakingly yank the ladder up after her. She had added hypothermia and dehydration to her mental list of ailments and injuries, and aimlessly hoped someone would roll by without any real conviction. By her count it was two weeks until Daryl was due, if he came back at all.

She had all but resigned herself to dying on that cold wet perch when the motorcycle engine cut through the fog of fever she was stuck in.

She took a deep breath and pushed herself up on one elbow, staring at Daryl's back through her one unswollen eye as he examined the woods across the road. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and blew, taking four tries to get a good whistle out. He turned. She smiled, closed her eye and whistled again, then picked up her bandana and started waving it. The elbow she was propped up on gave out and her head thudded painfully against the wooden floor of the platform but she kept on waving that bandana, her one single hope, until she heard Daryl at the base of her tree.

"Dylan?" His voice was ragged and he was panting. She could have cried all over again at the sound of it.

She tried to speak and found she couldn't force out anything but a wheeze, so instead she focused her good eye on the rope ladder and with a groan she kicked it over the side of the perch.

. . .

When she came to, Daryl's face was hovering over her and her head was in his lap. He stopped dripping water on her face when her eye opened. She attempted a smile, but with the way her face felt she was sure it didn't resemble one.

"Dylan?" His voice was low and tight. "What the fuck happened?" His thumb traced over her swollen eye and puffy cheek. She hadn't seen herself but she couldn't open that eye and she'd spat out a couple teeth so she was sure she looked awful. She made to sit up and he obliged, supporting her with a strong arm around her shoulders. She closed her eye against the dizziness until it settled, then focused on his face.

"Water." She managed to scrape out. He tilted the bottle towards her mouth and she resisted gulping it down, instead forcing herself to take small, measured sips. He was still staring at her. Apparently her smile hadn't been that reassuring. "Bad guys." Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper, and the cool water didn't do much to assuage the burning. She rubbed at her throat with a cold, muddy hand and he sucked air through his teeth, knocking her hand out of the way and gently tilting her chin.

A handprint spanned her freckled throat, darkly mottled blues and purples standing out harshly against her pale bloodless skin.

"Dylan..." He sounded so angry and so hurt. She didn't think she could get another word out so she put her hand on his chest and tried to communicate that she was sorry and thankful all at once. He got something, because he managed to smile at her. "Sorry I'm early."

Her laugh sounded pathetic. She patted his chest and jerked her head at his bike. She was overwhelmed by seeing him and knowing she'd be safe, feeling his strong warm arm behind her and seeing his icy blue eyes looking into hers. Her fever didn't help, and she was feeling hot and cold in turns.

If she hadn't been so dehydrated, she would have cried.

. . .

Daryl couldn't remember being this angry. From the second he'd scrambled up that rope ladder and seen Dylan lying there the edges of his vision were a red blur. He knew she wasn't dead because she'd kicked the rope ladder down to him but when he came up over the edge and saw her face he'd had a second of doubt, thought she'd kicked it in the ten seconds he'd needed to get to her. Her face was bruised and swollen almost beyond recognition. She could only open one eye and it was red with burst blood vessels. Her cheek was purple and she had a nasty split just on her cheekbone and a matching one on her bottom lip. The way she moved made him think she had something wrong with her ribs and when she rubbed her throat and he saw the handprint there he had almost lost it completely.

Now he had one mission. Get her back to Alexandria, to Rosita and the clinic and their stockpile of medicine and food. She looked like she hadn't eaten in days, her skin was ghost white and drawn around her eyes and mouth.

Dylan patted his chest, and jerked her head at his bike. He didn't think she could talk, and he was doubtful she could even walk at this point.

Daryl shouldered his crossbow and sat back on his heels. Dylan managed a grimace at him that he thought might have been intended to be a smile. "Let's get you back to Alexandria." He told her, and she grimaced again.


	14. Chapter 14

FOURTEEN

An hour later, Daryl had Dylan sitting in front of her barricade, leaning back on a ruined bumper and sipping water. Getting her down from the perch had been an ordeal. Her ankle was unable to hold any weight, and the way she carried her right arm seemed wrong. They'd climbed down in tandem, with Dylan's back against his chest and her progress had been agonizingly slow. She had all but collapsed at the bottom of the ladder and now he was having doubts about her ability to ride the bike back to the safe zone.

He looked down at her as she rested her head against the barricade and closed her eyes. She really did look awful. She looked like Merle after that last barfight before the turn, when he'd hit on the bouncer's girlfriend and in classic Merle fashion hadn't known when to back down. He found himself wishing he'd taken a car, wishing Denise was still at Alexandria, wishing Hershel was still alive. He rubbed his face and pulled a cigarette out of his vest pocket.

At the click of his lighter Dylan cracked a bloodshot eye. She held out a shaky hand and he handed her his cigarette and pulled out another for himself. She drew on it heavily, wincing as the acrid smoke bit at her lungs.

"Careful." It was the first thing he'd said to her since he'd found her on the perch.

"How am I gonna get back?" Dylan's voice was small and weak, and at that question Daryl had to turn away from her, blinking back wetness in his eyes. He really didn't know. He was toying with the idea of leaving her and going to get a car but he couldn't face the thought of leaving her behind in her condition.

"I only have the bike." he grunted back at her, still not looking at her. "Can you hang on for that long? I ain't wanna dump you on this highway."

She nodded at his back, dropping her head heavily against the rusted out car propping her up. "Don't have a choice. I can do it." Her voice was still small and weak and unfamiliar to him, but he could hear a thread of the woman who'd killed walkers side by side with him, not missing a stroke.

"We can take breaks..." His voice trailed off as he turned around to face her. She was staring at him, wide eye trained on his face.

"I can do it." She repeated, and he nodded.

"Might as well get going." He stubbed his cigarette out with his boot and she flicked hers away and held both of her hands up to him. He grabbed her as gently as he could, under her weak arm and at her other elbow and hoisted her to her feet. She swayed, and he didn't let go. "All right?" He steadied her by the elbow and she grabbed a handful of his shirt.

All the feelings of gratitude and joy she'd had when he had found her on that perch had dissipated. Now all she felt was cold, fear, and exhaustion. She knew there was a decent chance she'd fall off the back of Daryl's bike. She knew there was always a chance they'd get set on by roamers and she was less than useless, unarmed and weak as she was. She also knew, at the back of her freezing, terrified, pain-hazed mind that the people who'd trapped her in her own root cellar were still out there, and would be combing the woods for her by now. She knew none of them were trackers, knew that any hunter worth his salt would have followed her bumbling path directly to the barricade. That was a small comfort, knowing one thing they weren't good at.

But what if they came across them on the long, dangerous ride back to Alexandria? Daryl had his crossbow, a gun in his waistband, a knife tucked next to it and another in his boot. She had nothing and no strength to use it. "Daryl." She focused on her hand, fisted in his heavy canvas shirt over his chest.

Dylan took a deep breath. She had to tell him, warn him. At least give him the choice to leave her there. "Trip's dangerous." She managed to get out, felt him laugh a little against her hand.

"No shit." He was looking at her from under his hair, waiting.

"No, _more_. Bad guys. Still out there. They have to be looking for me."

Daryl's face hardened. "Fuck 'em." She started to protest, and he talked over her weak little voice. "No, Dylan. If I see who did this to you, I'll fucking kill them. They better hope they don't run into us."

Her first instinct was to roll her eyes at him, at his posturing and grandstanding but he was staring at her again, his icy blue eyes scrutinizing her face. She felt naked, like he could see through the front of her skull and into her brain, into the synapses and pathways and neurons that made up _her._ He didn't blink, and she tried to return the intensity of his stare.

Dylan managed a nod. She didn't have a choice, and even if she did she thought she'd choose Daryl. He was here, he was strong and she trusted him. He had saved her, come two weeks early and saved her from dying of exposure on a cold wet platform in the woods. She wouldn't turn because he hadn't let her, and she was at least comforted by the fact that if anything happened on their trip back to Alexandria, he wouldn't let her turn.

"Let's get you back, okay?" Daryl tugged gently on her elbow and she took a tentative step toward the waiting motorcycle. He felt better with a task at hand, felt better when he didn't have to look at her ruined face and hear that weak little voice he didn't even recognize as hers.

After a fashion, he got her on the bike. He was right about her arm, she didn't seem to be able to do much at all with it, just held it close to her chest. She was steadier now, a faint flush of color in her wan cheeks. He handed her a stick of jerky and noticed her fingers were icy. She was shivering slightly, sitting hunched against the weak breeze.

"Cold?" He was already digging through his saddlebags.

"Hypothermic, I think." She chewed slowly on her jerky, feeling the wind's cold fingers cut through her damp shirt. "It rained." She added with a shrug and a shiver.

Daryl pulled out a thermal shirt, his spare flannel, and dry wool socks and turned to face her. Dylan met his eyes square on. They both knew with her arm like it was and her stiff cold fingers she wasn't likely to be able to dress herself. She started fumbling at the buttons of her ruined flannel one-handed anyway, determined to make the effort.

"I'll be quicker." Daryl mumbled at her. Her hand fell to her lap and he crouched in front of her, nimble fingers making fast work of the buttons. He slipped one sleeve down over her better arm and gently pulled the shirt down and off her weakened right arm. She was bruised from shoulder to wrist, skin dimpling in the cold air below the sleeves of her grimy tee shirt.

"Tee shirt's wet too." He informed her without looking at her. She nodded, looked down. He put the clean thermal over her knees, ready to pull over her head quickly.

"Cut it off." She said, still staring at the thermal on her knees. "I can't lift this arm and I'm not looking to keep it as a souvenir."

Daryl nodded and went around to her other side. He pulled his hunting knife from his belt and slit her shirt from collar to hem in one smooth movement. He stayed behind her, willing himself to not notice the lack of a bra. She shrugged her shoulders forward and he saw her wince from behind. Daryl gently grasped the edges of the cut shirt and pushed them down over her freckled shoulders. He tried to focus on the tattoo on one shoulder blade and not the brand on the other. He reached over her shoulders and together they worked her arms into the sleeves. He yanked it up over her head and came around to face her.

She looked so sad, sitting there in his too big shirt with the collar slipping down one dirty shoulder, shivering in the cold. He wanted to hug her, hold her, crush her into his chest. He settled for tucking her into his spare flannel, wrapping it tight around her. He dug around in the saddlebag again and emerged with a mostly clean grey beanie Carol had insisted he take. He awkwardly placed it on her matted hair and pulled it down to cover her ears. She rewarded him with the smallest grin.

"Socks." He told her, holding them up. "Gotta take care of your feet in this world."

She nodded, bent to unlace a boot. He stopped her with a hand on her arm, knelt down to do it himself. As he peeled wet socks off her white, frozen feet and replaced them with his own warm wool socks, he swore to himself that he would avenge this. He would find whoever did this to her and he would personally and with a smile on his face rip them limb from limb.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: 1200 views this month! you guys are the best. this is another transitional chapter, before some real action in the next few!

FIFTEEN

Daryl had never been so happy to get back to Alexandria. The trip back had taken a couple of hours even though it was less than sixty miles from the barricade to the gates. He hadn't dare go too fast with Dylan clinging to him one handed, weak as she was. He was painfully aware of her weight on the back of his bike, her knees squeezing his thighs and her face buried between his shoulder blades. Her hair blew up and around them in a tangled cloud, tickling his ears and whispering across his shoulders. He navigated the derelict roads with more care than he could ever remember, wincing at every pothole and clamping her arm under his own where she reached around his middle. He had tucked her hand into his vest pocket for protection against the wind, and he could feel her fist tensing against him when the ride got rough.

He had stopped about a half hour in by his guess, tried to get her off the bike and onto the guard rail to get some water and more food into her but she shook her head at him, tight lipped and whitefaced. "Too tired," she had mumbled, head rolling forward onto her chest. "Just wanna get there."

And she'd looked up at him through her dirty hair and he had only nodded, gotten back on the bike in front of her and tucked her hand in his pocket. The rest of the ride was tense, he was on the highest alert. The roads, the route, their surroundings, he was almost dizzy trying to pay attention to it all.

What she'd said about the "bad guys" kept ringing in his head, over and over. He scanned the woods for any movement, anything at all. He hadn't been lying when he'd told her he hoped they ran into them. His vision still burned red at the edges when he thought about her on that perch, when he compared their first motorcycle ride when she'd used the grab bar instead of touching him and winked at him. Now she'd curled into him and held on tight without any hesitation, her knuckles on his vest bloodless white before he'd tucked that hand in his pocket for safekeeping.

They were about a mile out, at the top of a slow gentle rise that led downhill to the beginnings of a forest among the scrubby swamps. Alexandria was just inside the border of trees, the big gate would become visible in a few minutes, rising out of the young forest abruptly. When he saw it growing visible he squeezed Dylan's arm with his and pointed. She lifted her head out of the shelter of his back and he felt the point of her chin dig into his shoulder as she nodded.

He coasted up to the gates and raised a hand. He didn't recognize the kid on watch but he waved back and cranked the gates and Daryl took them through, his usual feelings of dread and frustration at the gate's clanging replaced by relief and a different kind of fear. He'd gotten her back, all right, but she was sick and hurt and still had a battle ahead of her.

He popped the kickstand on the bike and got off, taking Dylan's hand out of his pocket and holding it as she carefully negotiated getting off. She wobbled on her first step and he didn't hesitate, just scooped her up in his arms and started walking towards the clinic. He didn't see Michonne come up behind him and almost jumped out of his skin at her voice.

"What happened?" She fell into step beside him and reached for Dylan's wrist, hanging limp. "You find her like this?"

"Yes." He was terse and short, staring ahead at the door of the clinic. "Don't know what happened to her. Where's Rosita?"

"She's out." Michonne opened the door for him. "She gets stir crazy stuck in here, you know."

Daryl just nodded. He had to walk down the narrow hallway sideways holding Dylan, Michonne keeping in step behind him and flicking on the lights in the big main room. Daryl put Dylan down on the first bed and started unlacing her boots.

"Dylan?" Michonne always spoke softly, but she didn't often sound this gentle. "Can you tell us what to do?"

Dylan's good eye cracked open. "Cold." She croaked. "Warm first. IV fluids second. Not too hurt. Infected leg." She gestured weakly at her right thigh, where the dirt and grime staining her jeans took on a distinctly red tinge that Daryl hadn't noticed outside.

"You bit?" Daryl sounded sharper than he meant. She shook her head once.

"Stabbed." She replied, lifting her hips a little so Michonne could wiggle her disgusting jeans down.

Daryl couldn't watch. He turned away and opened a closet, pulling out the warmest blankets he could find and heaping them over Dylan's legs. Michonne had found one of those hospital gowns that tied in the back and was working Dylan's cold, stiff arms into the holes.

"Daryl, can you get some washcloths and hot water? I don't want to put an IV in before her arm is clean enough." Michonne was pulling supplies out of the cabinets now. Daryl obliged, running the water in the bathroom sink for a few minutes to warm up and squirting antibacterial soap into a basin before filling it.

He returned and sat next to Dylan on the bed, took her good arm and started gently wiping off the accumulated filth of whatever had happened to her. She looked at him from under her matted hair, and he met her gaze. "Dylan. What happened?" His voice was low and tight.

She sighed. He scrubbed a little harder at the dirt caked on her knuckles. "Got ambushed." She said in a small voice. "Was out in the woods, checking my snares. Didn't hear them. Two guys. Out scouting, part of a bigger group." She paused, flexed her hand a few times so Michonne could put an IV in the weak little vein that popped up. Daryl moved to the other hand and Michonne attached the bag of fluids to the IV and set the drip, like she'd done it a hundred times before.

"Thanks." Dylan sounded marginally stronger, and carefully tucked her needled hand under the blue checked duvet Daryl had covered her with. She sighed again and closed her eyes. "Fifteen guys total. On the move. Tied me up in their camp. Didn't believe I was solo. Found my cabin and brought me there, locked me in the cellar. Ate up most of my supplies. Beat on me pretty good. God knows what they did to my hens. I know they took my truck, found my gas supplies and guns and traps." She sounded dispassionate, detached, but a single tear snaked down her dirty cheek. Daryl knew how hard she'd worked to set up her cabin, knew how much pride she took in her little homestead.

He wiped the tear tentatively with his washcloth, and she reached up and took it from him, wiped her face roughly.

"How long?" Michonne's voice was steady but Daryl recognized the rage right underneath the surface.

"A week. Maybe ten days." Dylan's eyes were still closed, and she rubbed the now dirty washcloth over her neck and chest, revealing not only the vivid handprint bisecting her throat but a vicious bite mark on her shoulder.

Daryl got up, the basin crashing to the floor, and walked out the front door, almost running headlong into Rick on his way in. Rick turned on his heel and followed.

"Daryl." Rick stood a pace from his brother, crossed his arms and waited.

Daryl ripped a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, and Rick was uneasy when he saw the tremor in Daryl's hands. He'd seen Daryl rage, and lose his temper, and beat the absolute shit out of people, but this was different. He was angry, yes, but coldly so and with an undercurrent of something almost like fear.

He sucked the burning cloud into his lungs and practically spat it out, the blue stream curling around Rick's face.

"They kept her in her own damn cellar, Rick." Daryl's voice was even, but loud and harsh. "Fifteen guys. For a week. She's dehydrated. Hypothermic. She has a goddamn bruise on her throat shaped like a hand. She was stabbed. She has a fucking _bite mark_ on her shoulder, Rick." At the last sentence his voice broke.

Rick paled. He knew what Daryl was implying. He knew what kind of men lived in this world, they all did. He took Daryl's cigarette out of his shaking hand and took a drag, blowing the smoke over his shoulder and handing it back.

"When she's up to it, we question her." Rick's voice was steady, his reassuring cop voice that made you listen to him. "We find out everything we can, we form a party, and we go out." He put a hand on Daryl's shoulder. "We don't let them get away with this." Daryl nodded once, knowing Rick was a man of his word, a man of unerring moral fiber.

Rick walked away up the street, hand on his Python and shoulders slightly slumped under the weight of his words.

Daryl stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: this is another kind of transitional chapter, Dylan has to heal before she goes on a rampage and there's no way she'll let Daryl go without her!**

SIXTEEN

Dylan didn't know how long she had slept. She seemed to be able to open both her eyes, at least a little, and she was lying in a soft bed. She was covered in blankets and her limbs were warm but she felt a deeply entrenched cold in her core, like an unmelting snowball was sitting in her chest cavity next to her heart. She shivered. It was dark, wherever she was, and something heavy was on her legs. She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling until they adjusted, then looked down. To her surprise, Daryl was in a chair at her bedside, fast asleep and sprawled over her legs.

She untangled her hand from the same checked duvet he'd covered her with, and, mindful of the IV still stuck in her she reached down and gently pushed Daryl's hair off his face. He stirred but didn't wake up, and she contemplated his face for a few minutes in peace. He was so different relaxed in sleep. He looked a good ten years younger and Dylan wondered abstractly how old he really was, not that it mattered so much nowadays. She wondered how long she'd slept. She had guessed it to be midmorning when Daryl found her and maybe early afternoon when they'd arrived back at the safe zone. The complete, moonless darkness outside made her think it was past midnight. The only light in the room came from a cracked door across from her, the dim glow of a nightlight creeping under the door.

Daryl stirred again under her gaze, and she saw the glint of his eyes in the dark. "Hi." She croaked at him, and he sat up, rubbing his face.

"Hi. Need me to get Rosita?" His voice was quiet and tight.

She shook her head. "Some water would be nice. And I need to pee." She started pushing the blankets off herself with her better hand, and noted with satisfaction that she wasn't in a hospital gown anymore. Someone, hopefully Michonne or Rosita, had dressed her in a plain blue tee shirt and baggy plaid pajama pants. Daryl helped her pull the covers down and came around the other side of the bed, standing in front of her while she rested her bare feet on the floor.

"Don't get up fast." He warned her.

"Oh, you're a nurse now Daryl?" She sniped right back and grabbed her IV pole for support. She stood, a little wobbly, and his hand was under her elbow suddenly, warm and rough. She shook him off, but he just held her harder. "I can walk, Daryl." She tested out her weight, and felt bandages around her ankle and thigh. She winced.

"Prove it." His hand tugged her along gently, and she took a wavering, unsteady step. She felt herself wobble almost off balance, and he moved to stand beside her, a hard arm snaking around her waist. She remembered for a moment the comfort she'd felt from that same arm up on her perch, when she'd woken up to his icy blue eyes, and tried to shake it off along with his arm.

"Dylan." His voice was almost angry now. "Stop. I don't want to scrape you off the floor."

She sighed, and shuffled forward, toward the dim shaft of light peeking around the door ahead of her. "Fine. You're not coming in." She sounded almost petulant, like a whiny child, and she felt his arm shudder a little. He was laughing at her.

"Fine." He echoed back at her, toeing the door open gently. There was a little night light glowing above the sink and he guided her hand to the porcelain rim and stood back. "No passing out." He shot at her and closed the door.

She flipped her middle finger at the door as she remember the _other_ time she'd woken up to Daryl Dixon's concerned face, that time after passing out in his bathtub, and her ears burned with shame. He was going to think she was some kind of weakling, some damsel in distress just waiting for a man to save her. She snorted. If he'd seen her three days ago, leaving a path of carnage behind her as she'd escaped from her own cellar, he'd have another opinion entirely.

Dylan used the toilet and marveled at the flush, marveled even harder at the hot water that flowed out of the tap at her command. She used the soap there to wash her hands, mindful of the IV site. She made a mental note to ask Michonne where she'd learned to do that. The sword wielding woman had been a welcome face to her yesterday and had clearly had some kind of medical training. Dylan finally looked up into the mirror and her breath escaped her in a single _whoosh._

She looked fucking awful. She'd known, in an abstract way, up on the platform that she must've looked like shit. She'd been beat on, she'd spat out teeth, she couldn't open her eye. But she'd been so focused on simply not dying, then Daryl had shown up and she'd been so relieved but somehow had to focus _harder_ on not dying, then she'd arrived at the safe zone and been caught up in the bustle of being saved for real that she had kind of forgotten that she might look like shit. It had seemed so unimportant, even as she spat teeth out onto the dirt floor of her root cellar. She had never been vain before the world ended and any shallow thoughts about appearance quickly fell by the wayside after, but now she felt a stinging shame about the face staring back at her.

Her left eye was swollen almost shut, an ugly splash of plum and red bruises spreading from the six neat stitches holding her eyebrow together to her ear. Her lip was split too, held together with three more tidy black stitches. Whoever had done it had waited for her to pass out; she'd fallen asleep before Daryl had come back inside from his cigarette. She blamed equal parts exhaustion, morphine and an acute adrenaline comedown for that one. Whoever had stitched her had done a great job. She leaned into the mirror to inspect her eyebrow and pulled her matted, disgusting hair off her face to check how far the bruising went. She was surprised to see another gash above her ear, five stitches in a small bald patch. She grimaced at herself in the mirror and was at least gratified to see her very front teeth were still intact. She opened her mouth wide to assess the damage, feeling her lip stitches pull slightly and seeing that she was missing three back molars and a bottom canine. Her front tooth was chipped now as well. She sighed, and turned the tap on again to wash her face, she was so dirty it seemed ingrained in her skin. Her hair was absolutely disgusting, matted and filthy and she was sure if her nose was working properly she would _stink_.

She jumped at the soft knock on the door.

"Dylan?" Daryl's gravelly voice was muffled through the door and she rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror.

"What?" She shut the tap off and opened the door, throwing the towel over her shoulder. Daryl was leaning on the wall just outside, still holding up the hand that had knocked.

"Just checking on you." He mumbled at her, dropping his hand.

"You don't need to. I'm fine." She carefully leaned on the door herself, to disguise the wobble in her legs.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. "You almost died." He pushed himself off the door jamb and crossed to the bed, bringing her the glass of water. She took it, raised it in a salute to him and drank. "You need anything?"

She took a deep breath. "I do, actually." Daryl took the now empty glass and put it back on the bedside table.

Five minutes later, Daryl was helping Dylan sit on the pillows he'd arranged at her direction next to the bathtub. He held her good wrist and had his other hand on her shoulder as her gently lowered her and settled her shoulders back against the pillow. He handed her the rolled up towel and she tucked it under her neck.

"Good?" He asked her.

"Mhm." She hummed back at him, shimmying her shoulders back more comfortably and crossing her legs. "You know what you're doing?"

"I've washed my hair before, Dylan." He was so deadpan she couldn't tell if he was joking. She lifted her hand and ran it through his dark hair, right above his ear, finding it much softer than she expected. He froze. She thought it was the first time she'd voluntarily touched him besides the other little hair stroke when he was asleep. Dylan's face burned a little; she didn't know why she'd done it.

"Well the salon you probably have in this fairytale town is probably not open, so you're up." She settled further into the towel and closed her eyes.

Daryl turned the water on and used the water pitcher from her bedside table to douse her head in warm water. Dirt and leaves flowed down towards the drain and he rocked back on his heels. He didn't know the first thing about washing hair as long as Dylan's, and he was guessing he'd have to cut out some of the bad mats. She cracked an eye at him. "It's really bad, huh?"

He nodded and dumped another pitcher of water over her head. "Damn shame." It slipped out before he was quite ready and he busied himself with the bottles on the shelf to avoid her. "Lavender or vanilla?" He asked, holding two bottles.

Dylan shuddered. "Old lady or my mother. Don't know what's worse." Daryl looked down at her, surprised.

"Your mother?" He questioned, snapping the lids of the bottles open to sniff them.

Dylan nodded. "My mother's house smelled like Marlboro 100s and cheap vanilla candles. Vanilla smells like my childhood." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "You choose."

"Lavender's nice." He grunted and poured a handful, then paused. "How do I...?" The question trailed off.

Dylan smiled without opening her eyes. "Start at the roots and try not to make it worse. Kind of scrunch it through. A scalp scratch would be nice too."

"You want a hot towel too, princess?" Daryl buried his hands in her hair and tried to be gentle, scrubbing at her scalp and trying to work through the knots with his fingers.

Dylan laughed, that genuine laugh that filled him up and seemed to echo around in his brain.


End file.
